


We are the Flame

by bluRaaven



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Companionship, Friendship, Horror, Multi, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9482381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluRaaven/pseuds/bluRaaven
Summary: She is the proud Heiress to a disgraced family name and some ratspit hamlet in the last forgotten corner of the world.  They are the fools who pick up a burden that is not theirs to bear, for the promise of gold and a chance at redemption.(And Dismas thought the worst that could happen was for the local tavern to be out of quality booze.  )





	1. Dismas

The stagecoach rattles and leaps as the driver steers it into every bump and pothole he can find with those withered raisins for eyes.  Dismas believes the old codger is nuttier than squirrel droppings, but the Caretaker, as he had introduced himself, also happened to be the only person willing to brave the trip to the undoubtedly delightful destination everyone else simply refers to as the Hamlet.  'It has ta be quite somethin',' Dismas thinks, 'If no one's ever bothered namin' it.'

And that's exactly where he's bound for now, with a defective spring coil digging into his backside through the cushioned seat, worn threadbare with age and use, and his teeth clattering.  One of his companions is a mobile armour fondling a rosary in a most unsettling manner, the other an Heiress to a disgraced family name and some ratspit village in the last forgotten corner of the world. 

Which suits him just fine.  He deserves to be forgotten, to fade from the memories of everyone he ever encountered, far away from the things he tainted with his touch. 

The Old Road cuts a serpentine swathe through the Weald, the _fucking Weald_ , of all places on this gods-forsaken earth.  Dismas sits hunched over, with his shoulders defensively drawn up and his chin propped up in the palm of his hand as he watches the countryside pass by.  He knows the stories surrounding the Weald.  Of the army Emperor Harauld had lost to the malevolence of these woods when he had decided to make land on the east coast to take the kingdom by surprise.  Wandering between the dense tress one can still come across the bones and swords of the men who had perished here, and their spirits are said to haunt their last resting place. 

Beyond the window, the milestones flash by one after the other, worn almost beyond recognition, moss and lichen devouring the stone underneath.  In the gathering twilight tendrils of mist form milky pools close to the ground, and that's when he catches sight of a flash of white.  Where there was nothing a moment ago, a translucent figure stands between the trees, emitting an eerie pearly glow. 

Dismas feels his veins fill with ice as it looks straight at him, then stretches one skeletal finger to point down the road, in the direction they are going. 

He jerks back with a curse, kicking the knight in the process, hard enough to rip the man out of his self-inflicted coma.  He turns with a heart palpitating wildly in his chest and a sickening churning in his stomach, but the specter is gone, and the woods are dark and empty. 

"What is it?" the knight asks, bending forward as he tries to follow Dismas' gaze. 

"Thought I saw– ," a ghost. "Nuthin'," Dismas mumbles, dry tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.  What he needs is a drink.  He clears his throat.  "It's nothing." 

He can _hear_ the knight frown. 

"We should be there soon," the woman opposite them says coolly, her hands clasped in front of her, white-knuckled but steady. 

He nods and doesn't reply. 

 

The first time he saw her, she was dressed in a severe-looking black attire with a high neck that was more a suit than a skirt, the likes of which have been out of fashion for at least a century, if not more.  Her knee-high silver-bucked riding boots showed signs of hard wear, the leather smooth and polished. 

She had stood out in the tavern; enough to draw the curious glances of both the patrons and the innkeeper.  The establishment was well frequented at this hour, with all the tables occupied – all except for one.  Drunks, barmaids and common folk alike gave a wide berth around the lone figure nursing a mug he had not lifted once. 

A hood drawn deep over his face could not hide that the man was a crusader.  The eight-pointed star of the Order of Light was embroidered boldly on the chest of his crimson surcoat in a blazing gilded thread.  A sword in pristine condition, yet showing clear signs of use stood propped between the knight's legs. 

Dismas had had one look, and decided that standing next to the fireplace suited him just fine.  What the holy warrior was doing this far north was anyone's guess, but he knew for sure that he wanted none of it.  Religious zealots were pretty far on top of the list of things Dismas did not need in his life. 

But all thoughts of the knight were soon driven from his mind, when the strange woman spoke up, addressing everybody present in a clear voice.  She offered them work and good coin, but when they asked her to show some if it, her reply had been, "I do not carry it on me." 

At least she had some brains, but the admittance had only drawn sneers and laughs from her audience.  These people were not highborn.  Promises did not mean much to them if you could not make good on them.   Dismas himself was no stranger to the honeyed lies of conmen. 

And he did not for one second believe she was one.  There was just something about her, standing with straight-backed composure after being laughed in the face.  Before he could put his finger on what it was, however, the old man had burst from the back, falling to his knees in front of her, clutching one of her hands in his gnarled ones.  Dismas pushed off the wall and moved closer. 

The noise had risen again to a clamour, and the words exchanged between them were lost to him.  By the time Dismas was near, the geezer was sobbing into the back of her hand while she stood frozen in something akin to shock. 

"The letter.  Ah, the letter!  Your venerable grandfather, milady, your ancestor, the noble sire, he – "

Dismas had suppressed the urge to throw up, lest the force of the cat knock out his front teeth, and decided to be a gentleman and help out a damsel in distress. 

"Oy!  Leave _milady_ here alone, you!"  He pulled the old man back by the shoulder, and off the woman, who reclaimed her hand with a look of complete dismay.  Dismas did not dare to get his hopes up that it wasn't partially directed at him. 

The man, who he had later learned only had a profession for a name, gifted him with a smile that perfectly showed off his missing teeth, and bowed deeply, stammering, "Good sir, kind sir..." 

"Don't even start with me," Dismas cut him off.

Someone on his other side had snorted.  He turned to find the crusader had walked up to them.  The other man was a good half head taller than Dismas, and he had the bulky frame of a warhorse. 

"Are these two bothering you, my lady?" 

"Behold! It speaks!" Dismas said.  Having kept a close eye on him, knew that the knight had not exchanged a single word with anyone since he had entered the tavern.

"Nervous talker?" the crusader suggested in a humourless, dry voice. 

"Shut up," Dismas grunted, realizing the irony of the situation too late. 

The armour had laughed at him.  That was about the extent of their conversation.  Anybody reasonable could tell they were practically bosom buddies. 

And then, pouring salt into the wound, he had to go down on one knee and ruin Dismas' one perfect moment of chivalry. 

"Allow me to offer my services to you," he had said, pushing back his hood to reveal a face framed by tousled light brown hair that fell into his eyes and a short beard, both of which could use some grooming.  But beyond that,  Dismas remembers being shocked to discover that he looked young.  Possibly a decade younger than Dismas' own late thirties. 

"You shall be recompensed generously for your service," she assured, "Yet I need to warn you that the road ahead may be fraught with many dangers." 

"I am not a stranger to peril, or to the bloody work of the sword." 

"Yeah," Dismas cleared his throat to remind the two that he was still there.  "I'll come too."  _Eloquent as ever, Dismas_. 

"Then I accept."  She tore her eyes from the knight who rose to his feet."  Are you a warrior too, ... Sir?" 

Dismas, whose ears had perked up at the word 'generous' was willing to forgive her the lapse.  He had been many things in his life, but never worthy of that form of address.  "I've been in my fair share of fights," he said, following it up with, "Best shot ya'll find this side o' the Channel." 

The crusader's eyes narrowed.  "And what, pray tell, is your profession?" 

For a heartbeat Dismas was lost for an answer.  Then, "I've worked freelance."  Slitting throats, ambushing nobles, raiding and roving the countryside.  Until...

Until. 

The knight was not convinced.  "What honest man goes masked?" he enquired.  "Or do you have something to hide?  Why else cover your face?" 

"Because I'm an ugly fucker, _that's why_ ," Dismas drawled, and smiled behind his scarf. 

"Please."

Their heads turned back to the person in their midst. 

"I am in no position to decline help, if it is freely offered." 

"Actually, I hoped ta be included in said recompens– "

"Excellent!  Shall I ready the coach, milady?" the Caretaker, whom they had all forgotten by now, butted in. 

"Soon," the woman decided.  "I have ridden all day, I would eat first." 

"I have a table," the knight proposed.  Indeed, no one had dared to remove as much as a chair in the knight's absence. 

She smiled up at the shining heap of metal.  "That is very kind of you." 

 

"Bandits!  Bandits on the road!" 

Dismas is ripped out of his thoughts by the Caretaker's shrill scream.  His head is not the only one to snap up.  In the next instant they hear the crack of the whip, and the coach lunges forward, when the horses pulling it break out into a wild gallop. 

"Isn't this dangerous, in the dark?" the Heiress asks. 

Her answer comes a moment later.   The coach swerves wildly, turning crossways, then, almost like someone had slowed time, it begins to tip.  There is a moment of confusion, before the world turns upside-down. 

They're flung from their seats.  Dismas notes a feeling of weightlessness before he is sent crashing into something – no, someone.  A scream, followed by pain, darkness, and more pain, and _why won't it stop_?

Everything grinds to a halt a moment later. 

Dismas draws a shaky breath, filling his lungs with the air that had been knocked out of them.  He is bruised and battered, but very much alive, and just for a while it is enough.  Slowly, his surroundings begin to filter through his muddled mind.  They're lying in a heap on the floor.  Which used to be the side of the coach.  He had the good fortune to land on top of the knight.  If it were the other way around, he might have been squished like a bug. 

Dismas rights himself slowly.  Nothing appears to be broken.  Good.  That's... good.  He kicks open the doors of the carriage, now broken and useless, and climbs out, reaching down to help his companions.  Whatever their differences, they're in this together now. 

The crusader and the Heiress both sport a look of dazedness that Dismas is sure they can see on his face as well.  He seems fine and while she is pale, the lines around her mouth are firm.  The heiress disentangles herself from the knight's supportive grasp and goes to help the Caretaker free the draught horses from their harnesses.  How the geezer survived the accident without snapping his withered old neck, Dismas cannot begin to guess.  Divine intervention, most likely. 

One of the horses breaks free and bolts, and the man takes off after it.  Spry old bugger. 

"Hey!" 

No one pays the crusader any mind. 

"Bloody feckin' hell," the highwayman mutters, and kicks a stone, watching it disappear in the high grass of the unkempt roadside.  The crusader shoots him a dirty look, but keeps his silence.  Good.  There's a lot more where that came from. 

The knight bends down to inspect the coach, while the Heiress soothes the two remaining horses with touch and a gentle voice.  They seem to be unharmed, and her own black hunter nuzzles her elbow. 

"Axle's broken," Armour tells no one in particular. 

"You're very perceptive," Dismas retorts.  The wheel is also gone, lying several paces next to the coach.  Yep, they're screwed. 

"How far behind us do you think they are?" the Heiress calls over, casting an anxious look over her shoulder, where the shadows gather and close in on them. 

"Not far enough."  Dismas' response is grim.  "D'ya know how ta fight, lass?" 

She replies with a most unladylike roll of her eyes.  "Do I look like a soldier to you?" 

"I say we make our stand here," Dismas suggests.  "We've got the coach ta provide some cover.  If they have men in front of us too, we'll be caught right between them if we try ta run." 

To his great surprise the crusader nods.  "I agree.  We will take the fight to these degenerates.  They tend to be cowardly scum." 

_Yeah, fuck you too._

Dismas bites his tongue and pulls out his guns and begins to inspect them for any sign of damage. 

 

The ambush, when it is sprung on them, has lost its crucial element of surprise.  Up close the outlaws are a ragged, sorry bunch, nothing like well-organized gangs further up north that he had run with.  They attack with a frenzy that surprises him though.  One look at his tattered overcoat, or the crusader's emblem should be enough to tell them they have precious little to gain and a lot to lose by robbing them. 

The knight grips his sword with both hands, his entire body taut, ready to leap into action.  He had put himself in the front, and Dismas had not protested.  When the first outlaw makes the mistake of going for him, the knight runs him through, ruthlessly kicking the still twitching man off his blade.  A part of Dismas admires the grace and deadliness of the other warrior. 

Then he has no more time for mooning over the guy, because a few of the bandits made it past the knight, and are now looking for an easier target.  One of them spots Dismas, and goes straight for him.  Dismas takes aim, and fires.  The hammer of his gun clicks, and the blackpowder ignites with a hiss, followed closely by the _BOOM_ of the discharge.  The man aiming a blunderbuss at the crusader from the edge of the forest crumbles and falls.  The closest brigand laughs, thinking Dismas missed him.  He doesn't know that Dismas never misses. 

Never. 

The highwayman pulls the trigger again, shooting him at point-blank range.  The man's head explodes in a spray of blood, brains and bone shards.  Dismas grins.  Double-barreled flintlock, friend.  The second one always catches them by surprise.  He holsters his gun, now out of bullets, and reaches for the rifled gun.  Before he can pull it out though, another one of the brigands who manages to get past the knight, is sprinting at Dismas.  He's got a makeshift spear that makes the highwayman's dagger look like a toothpick by comparison.  Dismas curses vividly, scrambling backwards, fumbling for his firearm as the enemy closes in, now almost within attack range. 

Then the man is gone, flung through the air like a doll as the Heiress rides her steed into him at a full gallop.  Dismas' heart stops in its tracks for the fraction of a second, then it picks up its beat with twice the speed.  He sees the next adversary bearing down on him, and turns to face him.  His trusty dagger dispatches the bandit quickly, and with no more enemies to fight, Dismas moves to help out the crusader, just as the man pivots, and then almost cuts a brigand trying to circle around him in half with one strike of his longsword.  The remaining outlaws flinch back and retreat a few steps as the knight bellows out his rage, completely caught up in the bloodlust. 

The man is absolutely terrifying, and Dismas, although not a religious man, nevertheless thanks the Light that they are fighting on the same side. 

He sees the crusader charge their foes with a ferocity that seems to be born of madness, and to his right the Heiress' horse rears up, another bandit going down under blows from her riding crop, and her horse's iron-shod hooves. 

Dismas catches movement out of the corner of his eyes, and spins.  Too slow.  He can feel the cold bite of steel along his side.  Muscle memory is what guides his blade across his attacker's throat, and then the ground is rushing up to meet him, – no, _he_ is falling. 

Dismas catches the fall with his hands, but the shock of the collision with the ground makes his surroundings lose focus.  'No,' he tells himself, 'Ya can't pass out.'  For a heartbeat he is not sure whether he can cling to consciousness. 

One of the bandits, the one who is held together only by the hauberk he is wearing, is crawling towards him, dragging his entrails behind him.  There is no intelligence, no emotion behind his bulging eyes, but his bloody teeth are bared in the parody of a grin, and when he catches Dismas' foot, there is astonishing strength in his grip. 

 _Where is the dagger?_ His hand feels the ground, but all his fingers encounter is rough stone.  _Where is the bloody dagger?_

In mounting panic he kicks the bandit, once, twice, shattering jaw and nose, but he still _won't let go,_ and just as Dismas is bending his knee for a third and final blow, the crusader's form appears before him.   

He bends down, and drags the outlaw off Dismas by one leg, before he stomps on his back, immobilizing him and pushing his sword through the spine right at the base of the man's skull.  It's as efficient as it is brutal, and Dismas can feel the sour tang of fear at the back of his throat as he looks into the absolute blackness of the knight's visor.  For a moment he is not sure he will survive to draw breath again. 

And then the crusader's knees bend, and he crouches next to the highwayman's shaking form, steadying him with one hand on his back. 

"Are you injured?"  His voice, ruined from all the shouting, rings hollow from the depths of helmet, sounding almost inhuman. 

Dismas looks at his side.  The patches are probably the only thing holding his old coat together, but now it has a new cut, and there is blood.  His blood, warm and sticky.  He manages a nod.  "'S it over?" 

The knight nods back.  "It is.  Don't move.  I have medical supplies." 

"Somethin' wasn't right with these men," Dismas states, when the crusader makes it back, a small leather case tucked under one arm.  He recalls the maniac, agonized grimace of the outlaw who had clawed at him, and fails to suppress a shiver.  "They were more animal than human." 

"They were highwaymen," the crusader replies, kneeling down.  "Cutthroats and thieves, what did you expect?" 

 _Not this_. 

Dismas wisely does not comment. 

"Is this what you saw earlier?" the other man speaks up again, gently but firmly prying Dismas' hand from his side, where it has clamped over the wound by instinct.  Dismas had not even noticed, but lets go, balling his hands into fists instead. 

"What?" 

The knight lights a lamp, then he lifts his visor to better inspect the wound.  His eyes are brown too, Dismas notices.  "You said you saw something.  On the road." 

"Yeah.  Must've been."  He knows what he saw.  He's got excellent eyesight for the distance.  It's just when things are too close that they tend to go fuzzy.  'Sharpest eyes and the steadiest hands in all of the Westshire,' he had been proud to boast. 

"Ya know what ya're doin' there?" Dismas asks through gritted teeth as the other man pushes his shirt up, and out of the way. 

"Of course," the knight scoffs.  "I'm a soldier, after all." 

Dismas sucks in a sharp breath as the knight pulls the wound apart. 

"It glanced off your ribs," he announces.  "I can see the bone."  

"Please," Dismas swallows, "Don't tell me"  He isn't squeamish about blood, he just doesn't like to see his own. 

"You're lucky it's a shallow wound." 

Dismas grunts in answer and watches as the crusader searches for something before pulling out a small flask with a stopper and some clear liquid inside. 

"What's this?" 

"We'll need something to clean the wound with." 

"My pack," Dismas presses out. 

"There's no need.  I have holy water." 

"I'd rather ya use the alcohol.  It'll prevent infection." 

"The water has been blessed by Vestals," the crusader insists.  "It is better than whatever you have." 

Dismas acquiesces, because he senses that there is no point in arguing.  The knight cleanses the wound, then pulls out a small bone needle and catgut. 

"Hey."  The other man pauses, his eyes meeting those of the highwayman. 

"What's your name?" Dismas asks in a rush.  "I– I don't usually let people stab new holes into me unless we're on a first name basis." 

The crusader's mouth actually twitches in the ghost of a smile.  "The name's Reynauld," he says.  "Now hold still." 

"Dismas," the highwayman answers, and does as he is told.  He watches Reynauld work, and finds the man's calm demeanour and his sure, steady hands soothing.  He wasn't lying earlier, either.  He really knows what he's doing.  A few minutes later, Reynauld dabs the neat row of stitches with an ointment, before he presses some clean linen to it, wrapping all of it up with a strip cut from Dismas' shirt.  His – formerly – good shirt. 

"There," he announces.  "The stitches are a little loose so you can still breathe with ease." 

"Thank you." 

"Will he be alright?" a female voice asks.  Dismas had not seen the Heiress behind Reynauld's broad frame. 

The crusader nods.  "It's just a flesh wound.  We will redress it when we arrive at our destination, and then he needs to take it easy for the next couple of days.  It's a clean cut.  Those tend to heal well." 

Listening to their conversation with one ear, Dismas reaches into the breast pocket of his coat, his fingers quickly encountering that which he is looking for: a silver hip flask.  Fuck what they may think, he more than deserves this.  He unscrews the cap, and then tugs down his scarf to take a good swig. 

The knight's expression is unreadable in the deep shadow of the visor of his helmet. 

She at least has the decency not to hide her wince. 

He's not a beauty, and he knows it, but he still has almost all his teeth, and he'd made enough gold in his lifetime to replace the ones he had lost. 

Dismas holds the flask out, giving it a little inviting jiggle.  Reynauld declines with a curt shake of his head.  To the highwayman's surprise, it is the Heiress who snatches it out if his hand, tilts her head back, and takes a healthy gulp. 

"Easy, there."  Too late. 

She bends over, coughing and spluttering, and wheezing for air. 

"What in the Light's name is this infernal drink?" she presses out once the fit subsides. 

"Old Port.  Finest batch from Fraehaven," Dismas says proudly.  Where they still made it the way it was supposed to be, with sixty percent.  "Want some more?" 

"No.  Yes."  He watches in fascination as she takes another sip, the drink barely touching her lips this time, before she shudders and hands back the flask. 

"Better?" 

"Much.  I'm Mallory by the way," she coughs with eyes glazy from tears, one petite hand beating on her chest.

"Dismas," the highwayman introduces himself for the second time today.  "Pleasure ta meet ya."  

She hiccups a laugh, then her lips press together in a pout that grows ever more pronounced, until, just like the sun emerging from behind clouds, the smile breaks free.  She chuckles, eyes closed, one hand covering her mouth.  But the laughter bubbles up even so, and it is amazing how a person's face can be transformed by such a simple thing as a smile. 

Dismas too huffs a laugh, anything more cut off by the pain in his side, and runs a hand through his hair, feeling almost giddy with the surge of elation that comes only from having survived a fight. 

"You shouldn't drink when you're bleeding," Reynauld interrupts with disapproval clear in his voice. 

"Why, will not drinking make me not bleed?"  Dismas asks, emboldened by the feeling of being _alive_.

"No, but– "

"Then I'd rather be drunk while I bleed," Dismas decides.  Impeccable logic, that. 

"Can you walk?" Mallory enquires.   

"Are you offering ta carry me?" he counters with a cocked eyebrow.  "Ya must be a mighty lot stronger than ya look." 

She stretches out an arm, and he is surprised to find there is actual strength in her grip when she pulls him up, despite her stumbling forward one step. 

He wavers a bit.  The knight's hand clamps around his upper arm like a vice. 

"I can walk," Dismas decides. 

"We have two horses."  Mallory points out. 

"I ain't much of a rider," Dismas mutters.  "And we'd better load everything we can on their backs, I'd rather not sleep out here tonight." 

His words sober the situation up.  Mallory nods, and she and Reynauld get to work while Dismas sits down on a crate and closes his eyes.  For the longest time, he focuses only on breathing.  In, out, the rush of blood in his veins, the steady beat of his heart, gradually slowing down.  His side hurts, but in a strangely good way.  He had been stabbed before.  He is familiar that strange, terrifying numbness that only really deep wounds inflict. 

This is all torn skin and muscle, and he is comforted by the knowledge of having lived through worse.  When he checks again, the bandage is still mostly clean.  He lets his coat cover it up again when Mallory and Reynauld appear, each leading one of the horses, now laden with their belongings. 

Dismas heaves himself to his feet.  They set out in silence, but the quiet has always made him uneasy. 

"Mallory.  What are ya doin' here?" 

She mulls over the question for a bit before replying, "I received a letter from my grandfather.  These lands belonged to him, but it seems there is something wrong with our ancestral home, and the village." 

"What's wrong?" 

"I don't know," she says with a sideways glance.  "But I guess we will find out soon." 

Dismas hums an affirmative.  "Chin up, lass.  Whatever it is, it can't be worse than this, right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't ask me about the timeline for this story. Crusades mainly took place from the 11th-13th century, a flintlock was invented in the 17th, and a dirk is a Scottish thrusting dagger and not a shortsword. 
> 
> Aaand the winner of the Typo of the Week Award goes to..."When the first outlaw makes the mistake of going for him, the knight runs him through ruthlessly, licking the still twitching man off his blade."  
> Yeah, that happened.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	2. Reynauld

As it turns out, 'almost there' by coach means a full night of marching on foot.  The sun has risen over the horizon and burned away the morning mist by the time their destination comes into view.  Almost as if they had agreed upon it in advance, their small group stops mid-stride to survey the cluster of buildings that lies spread out in the dale below.  Reynauld feels his spirits sink at the mere sight. 

Dismas hooks his thumbs into his belt, and the crusader can hear a low whistle escape the man, though it is muffled by the fabric of the red scarf he has once more pulled up to cover half his face.  "What a shithole." 

Out of all of them the march must have been the most unpleasant for him, but though he had not complained, only asking for a brief break twice, his mood had soured further with every hour.  Reynauld saw the flask reappear a couple of times, but he had refrained from commenting on it.  It was excusable considering the circumstances and besides, it really is none of his business. 

Yet if these are the lands Mallory had claimed belonged to her family, he cannot let that statement go unchallenged.  It is hard to come up with anything positive at all, and he ends up saying, "I think it has a certain... rustic charm." 

The words ring wrong even as they pass his lips. 

Dismas shoots him a look out of the corner of his expressive eyes that says as much.  "You, Sir Knight, have taken one too many blows to the head." 

"He is right," Mallory sighs, then quickly corrects herself.  "This _is_ a shithole.  But it is mine now, my responsibility."  She tugs on her horse's bit and steps forward, tired but determined. 

"If they don't have a tavern, I'm outta here," Dismas mutters. 

Reynauld gives them both a few paces of a head start, while he scratches the neck of the horse he is leading.  "What do you think, boy?" he asks the animal, and his answer is a snort and the shake of a shaggy head.  He couldn't have put it better himself.  With no desire to spend any more time than is strictly necessary on the road, the crusader clucks his tongue and the horse follows obediently. 

 

It is not until they enter the outskirts of the Hamlet that they can see the true extent of disrepair the whole village has fallen into.  Houses have crumbled behind once-ornamental facades and every other building has either boarded up windows and doors, or is partially collapsed.  It is a sad picture, painted in grey, brown and the deep, endless blue of the sky spanning the horizon. 

Their horses' hooves make loud suction noises as they sink in the mud right up the fetlock, and the one time they see townsfolk, the people hurry past with bent backs and bowed heads.  Their fear is almost palpable.  It hangs in the humid air, mixes with the scent of greenery, wet earth and sea salt and, underlying it all, the cloying sweetness of rot.  Far above the misery and the grime, an imposing estate thrones. 

"When I was a girl," Mallory says, "This was a proper town."  She has stopped in the middle of the road, either indifferent, or heedless to the muck around them.  "It had a port, and threescore masts could be seen bobbing in the harbour at any time.  I remember how colourful the sails of the trading vessels looked, kissed by the setting sun.  It is why the Old Road is called thus.  It was built to connect the eastern lands with the western kingdoms, one of the earliest trade routes of this country.  And the Hamlet, though once certainly befitting its name, became a center of trade." 

Reynauld looks around.  Nothing of that erstwhile splendour remains.  The Hamlet is, for the lack of any better words, a dump.  And a laughable one at that, when compared with the cities, or the plain villages of the far east, where even a poor man's family home might boast an entryway above which painted sculptures of the patrons of the common people have kept watch for centuries past.  Where the early and late sun sets the mud brick on fire, and where the air is ripe with a multitude of smells; that of opium, citrus fruit, and a thousand lives crammed into broad boulevards, cloth-overhung bazaars, and narrow alleyways. 

Here, it merely reeks, of mould and manure, and Reynauld half wishes to have a scarf he can tie around his mouth and nose as well.  The visions of his past come upon him, unbidden, and he attempts to shake them off before they can sink their sharp claws into him. 

"I remember this street," Malloy continues.  "It connected the Old Road to the main square and the Port Avenue.  It used to be cobbled like the rest of the Old Road.  It's like... like somebody had turned back the time by a century.  This," she makes a vague hand movement to encompass the misery around them, "Looks almost exactly like one of the paintings I remember hanging over grandfather's study, back from when his father's father had ruled over these lands.  What could have transpired here, to undo all the work my forefathers have done?"  The last part was whispered softly, desperation underlying every word. 

"Perhaps bandit raids?" Reynauld muses.  "We ran afoul of one gang, more could have been harassing the town, this far from the justice of the king's courts." 

"Bandits don't steal cobblestones," Dismas points out, giving the muck on his boots a glare so dark, Reynauld half-expects it to burn off the offending dirt on the spot.  "Unless ya meant to say that the evildoers are a band of enterprising masons."  He laughs at the very idea, a cold, cruel sound, quickly cut off by a string of mutters in a language of which the knight only recognizes the universal ring of profanities.

When Reynauld turns his head, Dismas' hand is pressing against his injured side again.  

Mallory shakes her head.  "No, indeed they do not.  I need to get to the cause of these strange happenings.  But this is not the time.  Let's hope my grandfather has kept a journal."  She looks towards the mansion, dark somehow even in the light of day, overshadowing the smaller houses.  "You are welcome to stay too.  From what I remember, there should be plenty of room for guests." 

"I could do with a proper bed," Dismas remarks, and despite their many differences, Reynauld shares that particular sentiment wholeheartedly. 

"Then it is agreed," Mallory decides, and turns their party towards her family home.  An alley lined with chestnuts leads up to the building, but the once proud trees' leaves are brown and withered with disease, and their trunks are twisted unnaturally.  The bad state of the town was worrying, but this, this is more than merely unsettling.  It feels... wrong. 

Reynauld tries not to let his unease show, but he cannot shake the thought that there is some evil at work here beyond that which man is capable of. 

"Does anyone else have a bad feeling about this, or 's it just me?" Dismas asks no one in particular. 

He receives no answer. 

A few minutes later they tie the two horses to rings that are set in the stone wall for that very purpose.  Reynauld carries most of their belongings inside, while Mallory takes some of the smaller satchels and packages, and Dismas leans against the doorframe, surveying the interior of the mansion with avid interest.  

The house bears clear signs of the splendours of a bygone age, but it has not aged gracefully.  There is a layer of dust coating the arms that hang on the walls, and the thick tapestries and carpets have lost almost all colour and sport some prominent burn marks here and there. 

Meanwhile, Dismas has spotted an old armchair and is already relaxing into its soft-cushioned embrace.  "Ya don't mind, do ya?"  At least he had the decency to kick off his boots before he puts his feet up on the footrest. 

Reynauld has barely had the time to take in the coat of arms that hangs above the fireplace – a raven holding up a tower on a chequered field of red and gold – when a door opens somewhere in the back, and in storms no one other than the Caretaker. 

The crusader has him by the coat and up against a wall before the old man can so much as make a sound of surprise. 

Mallory gasps in shock, but recovers quickly.  "What are you doing?  Unhand the man!" 

"He crashed the coach," Reynauld reminds her, keeping his grip on the servant firm, although it does seem excessive considering the man's outwardly frail state. "And right after we have been set upon by bandits.  Now we find him here?"  

"The chimneys needed sweeping," the Caretaker croaks.  "I stoked the fires, cooked for my lady's arrival, and cleaned the rooms."

The place looks like it has not seen a feather duster in at least a decade, and there's no evidence of any of the other things having happened anytime this year. 

"You did not think to come back for us?" Reynauld enquires with mounting rage.  "You just rode off on that horse, after you found it, leaving us behind to our fate?" 

The old man stammers something that includes a great many 'my lady's' and very little actual reason. 

The crusader looks back to Mallory, whose face has once more hardened into the mask of nobility.  "I urge you to listen to your heart and employ caution," he says, but lets the man go.  His destiny is not for the knight to decide. 

Mallory's eyes and voice are cold as the clearly unswept fireplace when she faces the Caretaker.  "Thank you.  Your services here are no longer needed today.  Go and see to the horses outside, and retire to your quarters.  We will have words tomorrow." 

The Caretaker bows his way out, making a wide circle around the knight.  The sound of the door closing is loud in the aftermath of him leaving. 

"Grandfather said he had left a trustworthy man in charge of the mansion.  This is... "  Mallory stands in the middle of the room, with arms wrapped around herself.  Reynauld imagines he can hear her whisper, 'What do I do now?' but it is so faint he cannot be sure. 

He suggests breakfast.  They have provisions, it shouldn't take too long to prepare a meal.  Mallory shows him to the kitchens, and refuses to rest when he suggests she do so.  He suspects that she feels like he does, deeply unsettled and in need of a task to occupy the mind and body.  The meal, when it is done, is simple; oven-heated hardtack, softened with butter, and some bacon and cheese melted on top. 

Dismas cracks one eye open when the crusader puts a plate in his lap, and then he all but inhales the food.

In the dim light that manages to filter through the grimy windows it becomes evident that he is pale, his skin covered by a light sheen of sweat. 

"Told ya; should've used the alcohol," Dismas comments, noticing the crusader's gaze, though there is no detectable trace of rancour in his voice. 

Reynauld firmly believes his condition stems from exhaustion rather than poor treatment – he has full trust in the healing powers of the holy water.  "All you need is a good night's rest," he replies once they have finished eating, and offers his hand to the other man. 

Dismas grabs his wrist rather than his hand, the way northerners do, and Reynauld pulls him up to his feet.  He wraps an arm around the other man's waist, holding him upright when he isn't sure the man's feet won't give way from under him. 

The staircase is opulent, mahogany handrails and walls coated in dark velvet, and, where it cannot be overseen, a portrait hangs.  The man, bigger on canvas than in life, wears a burgundy robe, heavy and rich with gold ornaments.  Around his neck a scarf is tied in the gentleman's fashion.  An immaculately trimmed moustache and beard cover the lower part of a lined face. From beneath bushy eyebrows, shrewd black eyes glimmer with humour and a wicked sort of intelligence. 

"Who do you think this is?"  Reynauld asks the man next to him more for the sake of making conversation than out of any actual interest.  He can guess the answer. 

Yet Dismas manages to surprise him by saying, "The bastard who is presumably responsible fer all o' that."  He points over one shoulder with a thumb, indicating the house, or perhaps the town they have left behind. 

The crusader feels a surge of ire at the shallowness of the statement.  "We do not know that yet." 

They take the stairs slowly, one by one.  Dimas holds on to the handrail, grimacing every other step.  "Sure we do," he counters. 

"How so?" 

"'S always one bloody noble or another.  Wha can brigands do?  Take some livestock?  Raid fer a bit o' money?  It takes a title and fer the law ta be on yer side ta fuck up a place like this without any consequences." 

They enter the room Mallory had said they were free to make theirs.  The furnishings are simple and practical.  There are two beds, a fireplace, bedside tables and a large dresser as well as a small console in the corner that would serve nicely as a desk. 

"Mallory told me her grandfather shot himself."  The Heiress had told him the tragic story behind the letter she had received.  He cannot blame her for keeping most of it to herself, yet that detail weights heavily on his mind. 

"Yeah?  Does that sound like the action of an innocent man to ya?"  Dismas yawns, before he lets himself down on the bed with a groan.  "In all honesty, I don't think I'd care if he hung dead and dripping above me."  He toes off his boots, and then rolls under the blanket without so much as taking off his ratty coat. 

Charming man. 

 

Reynauld decides he has no desire to keep him company.  He is worried about leaving Mallory with the likes of Dismas and the Caretaker, but since one is firmly asleep and there's no trace of the other, he figures she will be alright.  The Heiress has withdrawn from the living room, which leaves him alone, exhausted and restless. 

A bad combination, yet Reynauld knows it is wiser to save sleep for the night.  He makes his way back to the Hamlet, and is almost disappointed to find it unchanged.  The town is as uninviting on a second look as it was on the first.  

A tall statue of a man he recognizes from the portrait in the mansion dominates the main square.  Behind the rows of dilapidated houses rises the unmistakable star-topped belfry of a church.  Without him making the conscious decision, Reynauld's feet carry him up a path of gravel, past an overgrown foregarden that he is shocked to see contains the remains of graves long untended, and to the large abbey doors. 

To his surprise, there is someone in the building, moving about with a brisk step.  He uses the heavy brass knocker to announce himself.  The figure inside startles at the sound and turns sharply. 

"Who calls upon the Light?" a deep feminine voice asks. 

"A traveller, lost and weary of the Dark," Reynauld replies.  "Light's blessing be upon you."  

"And upon thee."  The person comes closer until she stands in the light of day.  Her hair is hidden under a headdress that frames a pleasant, round face, and she wears the forest green robe of a Vestal, a disciple of the Order of Light. 

"Brother," the woman exclaims, astonished.  "Thou art a long way from thine holy quest." 

"Indeed," Reynauld replies, dry-swallowing, but quickly catches himself.  "The Light has led me here.  Are you in need of help?" 

"If thou'rt be so kind.  I have never seen a place so devoid of our Lord."  She motions for him to come inside, and he does so after kneeling at the threshold. 

Together, they begin to restore the Abbey.  They clean the altar and after they manage to pry open the shutters, the windws as well.  They sweep the floor, light candles and set straight the pews, many of which are altogether broken. 

"Have you been here for long?"  Reynauld asks during a break. 

"Four nights," the Vestal answers, wiping her brow with a sleeve.  "I was sent here by the Order, to investigate, after we heard some disturbing rumours.  Thou as well?"

Reynauld inclines his head.  No falsehood will pass his lips in a holy place, so he chooses silence instead.  "What did you find?" 

"A town quivering in fear, its doors shut to strangers.  An abbey shrouded in cobwebs and inhabited only by spiders."  Her hand, soft and long-fingered grabs his gauntlet.  In the light of the candles the sister's eyes shine all the brighter.  "There is Darkness at work here.  Thou can feel it too, dost thou not?" 

"I had hoped my senses were playing tricks on me," Reynauld confesses and can feel his stomach twist unpleasantly.  "I arrived with a woman who is the heiress to this village which had been under her grandfather's rule, but has fallen to her after- ," he hesitates, "After he killed himself." 

The Vestal quickly crosses herself with the star.  "Then the Heart of Darkness will forever feast on his sinner's soul," she states with sorrow.  "This is a dark place indeed." 

"Shall we pray, then?" Reynauld enquires.  It had been a long time since he had been able to do so with another person of the Faith. 

He can see the white flash of her smile, bright in the twilight of the church.  "It would be a pleasure and an honour.  Will thou lead, or shall I?" 

"Please."  He gestures for her to begin, falling into the familiar lines of the Verse with an ease that comes from extensive practice.  They pray in comfortable harmony, reciting the Scriptures of Light, and Reynauld notices how the candles flare up as they do so, imbued with strength to fight back whatever it is that is suffocating the entire Hamlet.  Once they are finished, despite the discomfort of his recent journey, aching knees, and the weight of his armour crushing him, Reynauld feels lighter, stronger, carried by the Light's purpose. 

"I would ask a favour."  

The Vestal brushes off her robes as she stands.  "Ask then, I shall listen." 

"A companion of mine got injured on the road.  He is in need of healing." 

"Shall I see to him?" she enquires without hesitation. 

"This evening, if you would be so kind.  He is resting now.  I have treated his wound, yet I fear it may fester despite my best efforts." 

 

Dismas is still asleep by the time Reynauld returns.  He remains out cold until shortly before sundown.  The crusader isn't even sure he has moved once since falling into the bed. 

Reynauld takes advantage of the opportunity to study the sleeping man. 

Dismas has a frown that seems permanent, even in slumber, and a curious haircut; shorn short on the sides and slightly longer on top. His black hair has the first streaks of grey at the temples and he is possessed of a weather-roughened face, a crooked nose, and eyes set so deep they always appear to have dark circles underneath. 

It takes a moment to register that from the depths of the roll made of cloth and blankets, Dismas is looking right back at him. 

"Have ya been watching me sleep?" the other man asks, not giving Reynauld any time to protest.  "That's bloody creepy, ya know?  Though I'd rather wake to your pretty face than that of that old loon." 

Reynauld can feel the blood rush to his face – who dares to say these things, and in such an offhand manner?  

Dismas apparently, who slowly sits up.  The crusader jerks away, his heart skipping a beat when the other man pulls his flintlock from under the pillow, a hand wrapped around the grip, finger on the trigger. 

"You could have shot someone!" 

"That's the point, actually" Dismas replies, dead serious. 

Reynauld finds himself speechless in the wake of the comment. 

"What?  Ya don't keep your sword at hand when ya go to sleep?" 

"That is– ," he is about to say 'different', but a raised eyebrow makes him stop and reconsider.  "There is a holy sister in town," he says, changing the topic.  

"Great." 

"She agreed to look at your wound," Reynauld explains.  

"Thanks for asking me first." 

"I was going to."  The crusader bristles.  So this is the thanks he gets for his efforts.  "You weren't exactly coherent until now." 

Dismas makes a noncommittal sound in answer, and rubs his neck.  He is still wearing the same red scarf he never seems to take off unless it's absolutely necessary.  Reynauld has to admit that he doesn't like not being able to see the other man's expression.  It makes it impossible for him to judge what he is thinking.  Yet they had shed blood together, and Reynauld is aware that he needs to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

Just then there is a knock on the door. 

"That would be her," the knight says. 

"Oh, whatever," Dismas mutters and calls out, "Just come in; I'm decent!"  

Reynauld is almost sure he is nothing of the kind.  At best he has the looks and mannerisms of a common thug.  Which does not explain the expert marksmanship, and that is something that requires closer investigation. 

The Vestal is wearing the same robes as yesterday, and after a brief greeting she kneels on the floor to look at Dismas' injury.  

"The stitches need to be pulled first," she decides, "Otherwise I'm going to heal them into the skin." 

"I want him ta do it," Dismas says, indicating Reynauld with a tilt of his chin. 

The knight has put far more stitches into people than he has had the opportunity to remove.  He has no idea why Dismas picks him for the task rather than a professional healer, but in a strange way he finds the activity uplifting as it means the stitches are no longer needed. 

Once all of the catgut is removed, they recite the Verse of Light as the nun weaves the Light's power into spells of healing.  

Dismas stays silent the whole time, staring out of window. 

Reynauld feels a flash of fury – they are doing this for him, praying for the recovery of someone who evidently does not appreciate it one bit, but he stays his tongue.  For the moment, at least.  He watches as flesh knits itself together and redness is soothed, swelling reduced.  Eventually, all Dismas is left with is a bright pink scar around which the healthy skin puckers lightly. 

"Feeling a residual pain is normal during the first days, but I suggest using this salve to keep the new tissue from hardening," the Vestal says and hands the other man a tiny jar containing a yellowish ointment. 

"Thanks," Dismas grunts stiffly and pockets the jar.  He then promptly gets up, wraps his coat tighter around himself, and heads for the door. 

"Where are you going?" Reynauld asks him, rising to his feet. 

Dismas regards him with a face devoid of expression.  "I'm off ta see what the tavern has to offer." 

 

He leaves them both gaping after him in the wake of his rude leaving. 

Reynauld is the first to shake off the disbelief.  "Thank you, Sister," he says, and avows to have a talk with Dismas come the morrow.  An insult to a Vestal is an insult to the Light. 

"Junia."  

They look at each other and she and breaks out into pearls of laughter.  "Forgive me.  My manners seem to have deserted me." 

"No, not you," Reynauld answers with a twitch of his lips.  Such is the power of the Light when it unites the faithful that they had spent half a day labouring alongside each other, yet somehow they had forgotten to exchange names.  The crusader rectifies that immediately. 

"That man," Junia indicates the now empty bed, "Who is he?" 

Reynauld hesitates briefly before answering, "Someone we met on the road."  

"Thee and the lady Mallory?"  

The knight nods.  "I forgot to ask; did she let you in?" 

"She did indeed," Junia confirms.

Mallory awaits them in the same chair Dismas had occupied earlier.  She is sitting with her legs crossed and a glass of wine in one hand, twirling the dark red liquid around.  Reynauld and Junia both decline Mallory's offer of wine, and take their seats. 

"Mortimer Dumont was my grandfather," she begins after taking a sip, and launches into a more detailed version of the story the crusader is already familiar with. 

Reynauld had pledged himself to her cause before, but he is pleasantly surprised, when Junia offers her aid as well. 

"The Order of the Light would consider it an honour if thou'd allow us to assist, my Lady.  Such an undertaking as thine, is noble. The favour of the Light is surely with thee."

"And who better to chase away the Darkness?  I would be most glad to accept such a generous offer," Mallory replies graciously and Reynauld releases a breath he did not know he had been holding, feeling instantly relieved. 

Junia takes her leave shortly after, and the two of them remain in almost companionable silence, considering they met only two days ago. 

"You must be weary," Reynauld eventually hazards to presume. 

"And yet I am neither wearing armour, nor did I fight off an ambush, or spent the afternoon finding allies." 

"You handled yourself well," Reynauld points out, feeling admiration for the woman whose courage had not deserted her, even when in peril.  The last part gives rise to the old, caustic feeling of embarassment that always manages to resurface, no matter how hard he tries to suppress it.  "Please.  Think nothing of it." 

Mallory smiles at him over the rim of her glass, but the expression quickly grows wistful.  "I know that what he did was wrong and there is nothing that can change it, but I do miss the man I thought I knew.  Grandfather had always been eccentric.  He liked perfumed, painted girls that were too young for him.  He got outrageously drunk and fell off stairs, and he has always been fascinated with the Occult.  But I also remember how he carried me on his shoulders, pretending to be a horse when I was too young to ride one.  Later we would sit in front of this fireplace, and he would make up riddles or poetry on the fly." 

The crusader studies the deep lines and pale scars criss-crossing his hands, and does not comment. 

"Do you think we can trust him?"  Mallory enquires out of nowhere. 

Reynauld lifts his eyes to meet hers, lost for an answer.  "I beg your pardon?" 

"Dismas," she clarifies. 

Reynauld takes his time to form a response.  "I would not speak ill of a someone until I have undeniable proof of their guilt.  Yet... he does strikes me as a dishonest sort of man.  And one without faith."

"The latter is no crime here," she reminds him, and the crusader bows his head, guarding his thoughts.  A man who will shun the Light carries Darkness in his heart.  The scriptures clearly state so. 

"As it turns out, my grandfather _did_ leave a journal." Mallory apparently has arrived at the topic she wants to talk about.  "It is encrypted.  I know how to decipher the code, but it will take time.  Until then, this house needs to be made habitable again." 

"And then?" 

"And then," she replies after another mouthful of wine, "I mean to venture out to see what awaits us _below_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's typos include: "It is not until they enter the outer skirts of the Hamlet..." and: Rey the Cussader


	3. Dismas

If asked, Dismas would vehemently deny that he is fleeing the room.  Yet he cannot leave fast enough, and he is breathing much easier once the door closes behind him, and the oppressive feeling is lifted from his chest. 

Born and raised in the north, Dismas knows only the popular teachings of the Light, and cares little for religious rites and incantations.   He is not especially heretical, at least not according to his own sound judgment, and he has no interest in the Occult; the practices of witches and necromancers that led to the awakening of the Heart of Darkness – if one is to believe the Verse.  Which he isn't particularly inclined to do, either. 

His mother had raised him to use that thinker atop his shoulders, and blind obedience is something that puts him very ill at ease.  Maybe it's because he is a criminal, and had never had much respect for the authorities to begin with, but he's happy to live and let live – as long as they deliver, of course.  He had run with murderers, thieves, and brigands, and in his experience it is always righteous people who are the first to judge, yet never see the errors of their own ways.  That, and they will always find a way to justify the actions undertaken on behalf of their beliefs. 

When it fell, Carnacea had been dubbed a great victory won in the name of the Light.  Dismas had heard that once the attackers had breached the city walls, the gore had flooded the gutters and ran ankle-high in the streets.  The bloodiest battle in the history of the crusades, and somehow every street hawker agreed that it was a sign of the Light's favour. 

The Verse is pretty straightforward about condemning murder, however.  After all, it's part of the Grace, the first prayer any child learns.  Dismas can make no sense of it, and he's given up on trying.  He'll never trust the words of priests when they preach peace and devotion, and call on the faithful to pick up arms against those who had done them no harm, or when Vestals speak of forgiveness and deal out death in judgement in the same breath. 

Love includes not murdering the person you're trying to make love to, but then no one who's most in need of them has ever asked for his opinions. 

 

Downstairs, there is no sign of Mallory and the moonlight streaming through the windows turns the living room into an uninviting, cold place of mottled lights and long shadows. 

Dismas leaves the house, the cool evening air feeling wonderfully refreshing as he takes a deep breath.  Then again, he has always been most comfortable outdoors.  He doesn't like how confining it begins to feel after a while, to have four walls around him at all times.  Especially those of a room, though he's fine with loud, crowded spaces, such as the common room of a tavern, for instance.  He might as well put his money where his mouth is, and see if he can indeed find one. 

The trees lining the alley which leads up to the estate creak and moan, and they seem to be contorting, as if in pain.  It must be a trick of the darkness and the wind, but even so Dismas pulls up his hood and quickens his step, hurrying down the path towards the sparsely lit town.  There's gotta be an inn, and he has already decided on becoming a regular patron.  Repentance is one thing, but he's not a masochist. 

After taking one wrong turn and a small detour, he arrives at the main square.  From there it is not hard to find the building with a tankard painted in faded, flaking colours upon a wooden sign that hangs above the door.  The tavern is wedged in between a house that must be a brothel judging by a mural of two doves, and a rundown gambling dive.  Potentially this layout is a clever concept that allows the townspeople to perform the Run of Sin before they go to church to ask for absolution.  At least, it speaks of a certain practicality, and a detestation for time spent walking back and forth.  Dismas can appreciate that kind of thinking. 

He shoulders open the doors without bothering to take his hands out of his pockets, and approaches the counter.  A man with an apron and a sad, drooping moustache is wiping glasses with a rag that does not appear to have seen much use.  His hair is cut short in the military fashion, and he looks like his hobby includes stemming casks of ale in his free time.  Which must be all the time, given the general lack of patrons and the thickness of his arms. 

The man looks up from his task with surprise written all over his face, but the corners of his mouth quickly turn downwards when he spots Dismas.  Typical. 

"We're closed," he announces in a deep voice. 

"No, ya ain't," Dismas objects, indicating the door with a turn of his head. 

The barman's expression does not change, but he doesn't grab Dismas by the belt to toss him out either when the other orders an ale and says, "Put it on my tab." 

"You don't have a tab." 

"I do now."  Dismas announces, and produces the necessary coin.  "Does this town have a bathhouse?" 

"It used to," the innkeeper grunts.  "But they've closed." 

"Shite."  He had rather looked forward to a nice, relaxing... oh, whom is he kidding?  At least he's got a place to sleep, and it isn't the ground.  He's getting too old for that kind of fun.   "Anywhere else a man can get cleaned up?" 

"For most it's the stream," the innkeeper answers, "Or if you'll pay for the wood, I got a back room, a tub and a boiler you can make use of.  You'll have to pump and carry the water yourself though." 

Already Dismas' side aches at the thought.  Of the wound only a scar remains, but the damage has not been unmade by the healing, and the memory is still fresh.  No fucking way is he carting around bucketfuls of water. 

"I got shanked not a day ago," Dismas says, and when the other man reacts only with a small shrug, he tosses another coin onto the counter.  "If you'd be so kind." 

The man swipes it into one giant palm and has a closer look at it, then pockets the money and nods.  "Do you want anything else to drink while you wait?" 

"Aye.  And none o' that piss water ya southerners call liquor." 

The barman grunts yet once more, showing advanced skills in nonverbal communication, and produces a mug of something that turns out to be surprisingly decent sherry. 

"What's your name?" Dismas wants to know, feeling already much more agreeable with the alcohol buzzing in his veins. 

A suspicious look is his only answer at first.  "Why?" 

"We'll be seeing a lot of each other," Dismas answers.  "But if ya prefer to go by 'Hey You', I'll respect that." 

"Lenn," the man says without cracking a smile, and leaves the tavern to fetch Dismas' bath water. 

Dismas is sipping his drink when the door opens again.  He is expecting to see Lenn, but instead it is a woman of middle height with greyish-blonde hair caught in a bun, and with heavy circles under her eyes who enters.  She comes right up to where Dismas is sitting at the bar, and picks the seat next to him. 

"Really?  Ya got the whole tavern ta yourself, lass, but you choose this one?" 

"I always sit here," she answers and climbs onto the high stool, letting her legs dangle freely. 

When Lenn comes back he is no more pleased to see her than he was to see Dismas.  "We're closed," he says yet again, though that is obviously not the case. 

The woman looks between him and Dismas, then points at the highwayman, and says, "No, you're not." 

"Yeah, people coming in and spending money must be a pain," Dismas agrees in a sarcastic tone.  "What would ya do if this dig actually got _popular_?" 

Lenn disappears again muttering something under his breath, and Dismas turns to face the new arrival.  "So.  And who might you be?" 

"Paschal," the woman replies.  "I travel the land and tend to the sick and ailing.  And before you ask about my name; the midwife told my mother she was having a boy." 

"I wasn't about to," Dismas answers honestly, "But if ya say so." 

"M-hmm," she hums and keeps trying to flag down Lenn who is clearly avoiding her.  "What was your name again?" she asks.  She has a distracted air about her, as if she wasn't entirely aware of her surroundings, or the fact that he had not told her his name. 

Oh well, it can't hurt to make some new acquaintances.  "Dismas." 

"You've got to pay for those drinks, you know?" Lenn says to the woman in between his rounds.  "And the room." 

"I have coin." 

"Coin you're running out of," he reminds Paschal.  

"But I saw to your friend," she protests.   

"Aye," he agrees.  "And we paid you for it.  It ain't my problem if you drink it all away."  But he still gets her order with the air of a man resigned to his fate. 

"And what are you doing here, Dismas?" Paschal asks, and the highwayman is amazed that she has actually remembered his name. 

"I'm drinkin'," he replies truthfully.  "And I'm helpin' the heiress to this hole.  There's good money in it." 

"Hm."  She lifts her eyes from the contents of her mug and seems lost in thought. 

"Whom did you say you were with?" the barman asks in her stead. 

"Mallory Dumont." 

"The last thing this place needs is another Dumont," Lenn grouses under his breath.  He is starting to make the crusader look cheerful, if only by comparison. 

"Give me another one," Paschal says out of nowhere, stretching out her mug towards the huge man. 

Lenn pours her the drink, which she takes with her, disappearing through a door in the back of the tavern without so much as a glance in Dismas' direction, let alone a word of goodbye. 

The barman looks after her long after she is gone.  "Damned woman.  Harder to get rid of than her bloody leeches." 

Dismas takes that as his cue to make himself scarce. 

 

In the back room he finds a tub with some cold, and a kettle full with boiling hot water that he mixes until the bath has a pleasant temperature.  It feels good to scrub himself of the dried blood and filth, though the bar of soap he had managed to grab before leaving is being used up rapidly. 

When he is done with the bath, Dismas runs his fingertips over the pink flesh of his new scar.  He doesn't mind the blemish; indeed he is quite a collector of those, but he does not like the reminder of how close a call he had had with the reaper. 

 _Ah well.  Another time, old friend._  

He's still got the salve the Vestal gave him, and applies it liberally.  His shirt is torn and bloodied, but salvageable, and he quickly buttons up and leaves the tavern. 

The trek back to the estate is no more pleasant than it had been before, but at least he immediately finds the right way this time.  When opened, the front door moans like a dying sow, announcing his presence, and two heads turn to watch him enter. 

"Dismas." 

Mallory and the crusader are sitting together in front of the fireplace, and they have an air of people engaged in a serious conversation about them. 

"Where have you been?" Reynauld asks, with the same suspicious tone he had addressed Dismas in the inn where they had first met. 

With droplets from his head falling to the floor and running under his collar and down his neck, Dismas thinks it's pretty obvious.  "I had a bath," he says.  "I wish the same good fortune upon you." 

The knight's expression closes, but Mallory ignores the quip.  "How are you?" 

"Feelin' better already," Dismas replies.  "I don't think I'm gonna croak it after all.  I almost want to, if only not ta have ta look upon this miserable dump again.  But, on the bright side, the tavern's well stocked with  booze.  Seems like the last thing your grandfather did was order a wagonload of casks, probably to burn this whole wretched place to the ground." 

"How do you know?"  Mallory asks with wide eyes. 

"I spoke to Lenn." 

"Who's Lenn?" 

"The innkeeper." 

She raises one eyebrow at him in a gesture that somehow completely fails to convey astonishment.  "That was quick." 

"Yeah," Dismas agrees.  "Life's too short to spend it sober.  Anyways.  Ya two have fun.  I'm off to bed." 

Mallory wishes him a good night to which Dismas replies with a ''Night', and Reynauld says nothing, though his eyes track the highwayman as he leaves the room. 

 

Before lying down, Dismas stokes the fire in the chimney, and then he simply enjoys having a real mattress all to himself.  It's not long after when there's a knock on the door.  Dismas expects it to be Mallory, but is surprised that it turns out to be the knight.  Why he'd knock when they're sharing the room, Dismas does not know.  He can tell straight away from Reynauld's expression that the talk they are about to have is not going to be a pleasant one. 

The crusader does not waste any time in addressing the matter either.  "Your behaviour today– " 

"Is this the part where ya tell me I'm an ungrateful cunt?" Dismas asks, interrupting him.  "Cause you can save yourself the trouble; I'm well aware of the fact." 

"To insult a servant of the Light, is to insult the Light itself," Reynauld points out.  His expression is serious, focused. 

"I didn't _insult_ her," Dismas retorts and pushes himself up into a sitting position.  But the knight doesn't encroach on him any further – he must remember that Dismas always keeps his guns at hand. 

"Neither have you shown her the respect she deserves." 

"My respect," Dismas says, with the twinge of annoyance flaring back up to full, outright irritation, "Is reserved fer those who earn it, not fer those who'd claim it as their right.  You, fer instance," he adds, to the crusader's visible astonishment.  "I've seen ya fight, and I know ya're damned bloody good.  An' I won't forget ya patched me up, either.  Fer that, you have my respect. 

"You have a strange way of showing that." 

Dismas snorts.  He is having a hard time reading the knight other than the general tension that is radiating from the man.  The crease between his brows, the tightness in his jaw and his straight, rigid composure speak volumes.  But he cannot tell what is going on inside the other man's head, and that makes him weary.  "I ain't the type fer bowin' an' sweet-talkin'.  Just do me a favour and _ask my permission_ next time before ya invite a stranger to work her spells on me." 

"You did not wish to be healed?"  Reynauld's expression changes from angry to thoughtful, and after a long while he drops his gaze.  "I apologize."  He clears his throat.  "I realize I should have done so." 

"Uh.  Yeah."  Dismas isn't sure what exactly happened to make the knight back down.  The sudden change in attitude catches him by surprise, but since it's working in his favour, he decides not to be a complete asshole.  "Thanks for going out of your way to.  Help me." 

Reynauld gives him a jerky nod, then turns sharply and begins to prepare for bed as well.  He takes great care to fold and put away his clothes, unlike Dismas, who simply tossed everything onto the nearest chair.  Yet another thing he does different from the highwayman, is that he doesn't just climb into bed once he is done, no.  He kneels at its foot, head bowed in prayer. 

Dismas closes his eyes to give the man a modicum of privacy.  Then he opens them just enough to observe.  Reynauld has kept his shirt on.  He looks different out of armour.  Vulnerable is not the word Dismas would use, but he certainly seems more human.  The highwayman remembers staring into that slitted visor as the crusader pulled the bandit off him and executed the man without hesitation.  He has a hard time reconciling these two images. 

 

In the morning one look is all it takes for Dismas to tell that the knight had not slept well, if at all.  He has circles the colour of fresh bruises under his eyes, and though they are closed, he is clearly awake, because the highwayman can see his lips move slightly.  The rosary is back in his hand too. 

Dismas leaves him to it. 

 

There is breakfast waiting for him downstairs, and he digs in, shortly joined by Mallory who proves to be a much better companion than the knight. 

"I wish to set out," she tells him.  "This estate houses many secrets, but there is one lying underneath it, and we need to get to the bottom of it." 

Dismas is shovelling scrambled eggs onto a slice of buttered bread and replies with a pensive hum.  "About that recompense ya mentioned – I ain't signing shit, and I want half o' my pay up front." 

"No." 

"No?" 

"First I need you to come with me," Mallory explains.  "If you decide to stay after you know what it is we are dealing with, you will get your pay." 

"But what if I die in there?" Dismas asks.  

"Then I'll be better off saving the gold for someone who knows how to stay alive," Mallory counters, but there is a small smile playing around her mouth.  "You won't be missing it, anyway." 

Dismas grunts.  Her attitude is admirable, but foolish.  If coin was really what he wanted, he could simply take it and be on his way.  He had robbed and killed for less.  And now he is here, and trying to atone for...  Well, most of the time he is just trying to get drunk enough to forget. 

"Ya drive a hard bargain, lass.  D' ya even have any gold?"

"I have enough," she replies and hands him a handful of coins to last him through the next couple of days.  "And do not forget that I also share my home and food with you."

"I don't forget," Dismas assures her. 

Mallory seems satisfied with that, and leans forward on her elbows.  "Is Reynauld still asleep?" 

"He's prayin'," Dismas corrects.  The question seems innocent enough on the surface, but he can sense there is more behind it.  He doesn't have to wait long. 

"Do you think we can trust him?" 

"I think he's a stickler for the strictures and commandments of the Verse," Dismas answers after some hesitation.  Mallory must be thinking her own thoughts, and she isn't sharing them with him.  "I think he's dangerous, but without ill intentions.  Whatever he says, he probably means.  That, and he might one day try to burn ya on the stake for bein' a heretic." 

Mallory chokes on a sip of her tea and shakes her head at the last part. 

Dismas decides to try his luck.  "Is this what ya asked him yesterday?"

She cannot hide her reaction well enough, and he doesn't blame her.  If he had to choose between the knight in shining armour and himself...

"I ain't gonna stab ya in the back, lass," he promises.  "Believe me or not, kick me out or keep me here – 's your call.  I'm done with that life."  Let her do with the information as she pleases. 

_An early-winter gale whips his scarf around.  Red around his neck, tight as a noose, red, like his hands are.  Dead leaves rise and dance on the wind and there are pinpricks of ice against his scalp, and numbness in the rest of his face.  Hooves thunder over frozen earth – around the bend in the road races a pair of horses with foam at their mouths.  There are two men on the coach.  He has four bullets._

It's good there is no more food on his plate, because Dismas has lost his appetite. 

 

The following day they prepare for the upcoming expedition.  Mallory is studying her grandfather's journal, Reynauld spends most of his time with the Vestal at the abbey, and Dismas keeps out of the way.  When the knight expresses that his armour is in need of some maintenance work, Dismas offers to accompany him.  He has almost run out of lead to cast his bullets, and there is only one place where they have a chance of finding what they need.  Thus, together they set out in search of a blacksmith. 

The smithy is easy enough to find, unlike its owner.  The building looks like there had been a fire inside that had fortunately been quenched before the whole structure burned down.  Parts of the wooden walls are black and scorched, and in one corner the bare rafters are all that remains of the roof.  But there are also clear signs that someone lives here; a shirt tossed over the back of a chair, dirty dishes stacked and waiting to be cleaned, a neat row of shoes next to the door. 

It isn't until they leave again and circle around the smithy and the few buildings at this end of the town, that Reynauld and Dismas spot a group of people out in the fields.  There seems to be a makeshift training place set up, with straw dummies and archery targets.  As they draw closer, they can make out the features of each individual. 

One is a blonde woman with an axe slung over one shoulder and half her head shaved, the other a man with his black hair caught on top of his head, and an earring in his left ear.  He wears a hauberk and moves with the confidence of a fighter.  From the looks of it they have been practicing while their friends watched. 

Dismas recognizes Lenn, the barkeeper, amongst them, and points him out to his companion.  The last man is older than the others, with a bushy white beard and a scarf tied around his head, and they know from description that he must be the blacksmith. 

"What barman and smith need to train with arms?" Reynauld asks. 

"Bored ones?" Dismas suggests.  He doesn't like the looks of it though, and his fears are proven to be well founded when a few quick signs flash between the members of the group. 

"Uh, Armour– ?" Dismas begins, but realizes that he won't have time to explain, so he just comes out with it.  "They're crooks." 

Indeed, the dark warrior moves to intercept them, brusquely asking, "Who're you?" 

"My Order is of the Light." Reynauld replies tonelessly. 

" –Light?" The other man repeats and laughs.  "You wot?  A priest?" 

"Darell, you dumb cunt," the blonde snaps at her friend, "He ain't no priest.  He's some knight." 

"He don't look like one," the man named Darell protests.  "He's way too young."  

Dismas can see Reynauld bristle at the statement, and he takes two steps back.  Things are going pear-shaped, fast. 

"I will suffer no insult from faithless vermin like you," the crusader growls, one hand firmly grasping the hilt of his sword. 

"You sure you wanna take that tone with me?" the dark-haired man replies in a deceptively soft tone.  "It's one against four for you, mate." 

"Sure.  Just ignore the guy with the guns pointed at yer heads, dumbass," Dismas mutters and wonders whose brains he'll have to blow out to get _some_ attention.  

"Uh, guys?  Liz?"  Lenn joins in, and points his bottle in the highwayman's direction.  "We have a bigger problem." 

Even Reynauld looks back briefly.  Dismas gives him a nod that he hopes the knight will interpret as 'I've got your back' rather than 'feel free to slaughter everyone standing.'  They had stuck together before, after all. 

"You can't get us all." the woman named Liz tells Dismas. 

"No," the highwayman agrees good-naturedly and trails his gun on her.  Reynauld can have her friend.  "But since ya just volunteered, I'll start with ya." 

"Fuck." 

And then Darell has to prove that a situation can always become worse by taking advantage of everyone's distraction to attack the crusader.  Dismas cusses under his breath, but Reynauld doesn't waste time on profanities.  He draws his sword and deflects the incoming blow in one smooth motion, then twists his attacker's blade to the side, steps right up to him and bashes him across the head with the pommel. 

Darell's friends both take a step forward, but halt in their tracks when they remember Dismas' bullets will find them before they can as much as lift their weapons. 

Reynauld's opponent is stunned and bleeding profusely from a deep gash in his brow. He falls on all fours when the knight pushes him down with one hand on the back of his neck, kicking his legs from under him.  "Eyes down, heretic," the crusader snarls.  "Kneel before the Light!"  He grips his sword by the blade with one hand, as if to better guide it, and lifts it. 

Dismas realizes he is about to witness an execution.  "Don't!" he calls out.  "Reynauld!  Don't do it!" 

"I judge them guilty," the knight answers him, his sword raised to strike.  "And I have the authority to deal out justice." 

"This ain't the Holy Empire," Dismas reminds him.  "Here, even a criminal deserves a trial.  _This is_ _murder_." 

Which he is no stranger to, but not even he had ever killed a man for so little as a slight to his pride. 

Lenn takes the opportunity to speak up, his hands raised in a placating manner.  "Look.  We ain't been giving the townsfolk any trouble.  We're just trying to get by." 

The smith lights a pipe.  "True," he says.  "I can vouch for that." 

"And you are?"  Reynauld enquires without relaxing his guard. 

"Ask the Lady Mallory, if she remembers Old Farley.  I have been working the forge here for thirty years.  And these people have done no one here any harm.  But," he adds with a nod towards Darell.  "He did attack you." 

"And the rest o' ya are hidin' in the lands between the king's justice an' the holy Inquisition, 'cause there's nowhere else ya can go, 's that it?" Dismas wants to know.  "Well, I got news fer ya shitheads.  Killin' us won't solve yer problems.  Whaddya think will happen if he," he indicates the knight with a tilt of his head, "Don't report back?  When more o' his order come he can either tell them you're folks who fell on some hard times and had ta learn to look after yarselves, or– "  He lets the rest of the sentence hang in the air.  A little bluffing never hurt.  He chances a glance out of the corner of his eyes to see if Reynauld is playing along, but the knight is regards everyone with a stony expression. 

"And because we, like you, cannot leave." 

"What?" 

"This place?" Lenn says.  "A curse lies upon it.  I heard you say that you wish to break it.  If you let us live, we will do everything we can to help you.  I cannot offer you more than that." 

Dismas shrugs.  "Long as ya keep pourin' my drinks, and yer smith supplies me with lead, I ain't got no problems." 

"You will disarm yourselves.  And as penance you will help rebuild the church and town," Reynauld announces, finally lowering his sword and picking up that of the downed warrior.  "The Light may forgive you for your transgressions if you atone; break faith and I will sentence you to death." 

"An' I want free drinks fer a month," Dismas hastily throws in while they're on the subject of bargaining. 

"Deal," Lenn accepts, and Dismas can tell he wishes for yesterday, when his biggest worry was that strange woman, Paschal. 

"So we're all friends," the highwayman says with forced joviality, and receives glares from all sides. 

"Bugger."  Liz looks like she is entertaining the thought of putting her axe to something other than the strawmen, but she too drops the weapon and steps away from it.  Dismas collects it along with Lenn's steel-enforced cudgel, a shortsword and a dirk that he decides to make his own. 

The smith puffs his pipe while the barman helps his shaking friend up.  The last thing Dismas sees before he turns to leave, is Lenn's fist connecting with the black haired man's jaw with a satisfying crack, his words carrying on the wind, loud and clear.  "You sodding idiot!" 

 

"How can you be sure they will not turn on us?"  Reynauld asks a moment later once they're back in the center of town.   

"If they're desperate enough to scratch out a living here of all places, ya can bet they have good reasons fer keepin' their heads low," Dismas deduces.  "My guess is they'll do anything ta keep trouble away.  Of course, I may be wrong and they'll come to slit our throats in the night." 

"I don't think you should come back," the crusader confronts him.   

"Mallory's invited me," Dismas says.  "If she has changed her mind 'bout my help, she's free to tell me so.  Until then, I'll stick around."  He sidesteps the knight, and makes for the estate.

"Why are _you_ here?" Reynauld calls after him. 

Dismas turns around, walking backwards without halting and spreads his arms.  "Show me yours, I'll show ya mine." 

He does not receive an answer, but after a long while, the knight catches up to him.  They do not speak on the way back to the estate. 

"I have bad news," a pale and shaking Mallory greets them the moment the door falls shut behind them. 

 

On the morning of the expedition Dismas is pacing trenches into the floor of their room, while Reynauld tightens the straps that attach his pauldrons to his cuirass in tight-lipped silence.  He is wearing what looks like full battle attire; a gambeson over a shirt of linen, a hauberk, a neck protection... thingy that Dismas for the life of him cannot recall the proper term for, surcoat, greaves, gloves and vambraces.  His helmet and a paddled cap are lying on the bedside table. 

Dismas has no idea how he can breathe let alone move under the weight of so much metal.  He asks, but the only answer he receives is, 'practice'. 

The highwayman is surprised to see the Vestal and Paschal waiting for them in the living room, clearly prepared for battle, if the mace and fauchard are any indication.  Mallory herself is armed with what appears to be a winged spear. 

"I thought ya said you were no soldier, lass," Dismas reminds her.  "D' ya even know how ta use that pig-sticker?" 

"You stab them with the tapered end?" Mallory asks. 

Dismas pulls up his eyebrows, nodding in agreement.  "I can't deny, ya have a solid grasp on the basics." 

Reynauld exchanges brief greetings with the Vestal, and Paschal admires the knight.  "Oooh, you're shiny," she tells the perplexed man, whilst giving her polearm little twirls. 

"What are you doin' here?" Dismas asks her. 

"Same as you, I'd wager," she replies and looks at him with big, glazy eyes.  "Weren't you the one to tell me there's good coin in this work?" 

 _Fair enough_. 

Dismas has to contain a laugh at the severity of the situation when Mallory unlocks the door that leads to the basement.  How embarrassing would it be if all they found below were spiders and dust bunnies to do battle with?  But what they encounter instead is a wall blocking their way, a spinning void of black, blue and purple; twisting, contorting, and ever-changing; it looks almost alive. 

Every hair on the back of Dismas' neck has risen at the very sight.  It is _wrong_ , a gaping wound torn in the very fabric the world is made of. 

"This is dark magic indeed," the Vestal whispers. 

"To open, the seal requires my blood," Mallory announces.  They had discussed it yesterday, but as soon as she draws and raises a small knife, Paschal gabs her by the wrist.  

"Let me," she says, and turns Mallory's hand palm-down, making a small, shallow cut in the back of her forearm. 

"Never cut your palm," Paschal says.  "It's where all the tendons are.  So many tendons in a hand..."  Then she flicks the blade at the seal, and with a hiss it evaporates at the same time the first droplets of blood touch its glistening surface. 

Simultaneously, the lamps gutter out, and all they are left with is one spluttering torch. 

"Give it to me," the crusader says, and as soon as it is in his hand, the flame stops flickering, and grows steady.  "The Light is with us," he proclaims, which sure as hell does nothing to soothe Dismas' nerves. 

The Vestal, meanwhile, quickly bandages the cut in Mallory's arm, and Dismas learns that her name is Junia, when Mallory thanks the other woman. 

With the help of the first torch, Paschal and Reynauld light the other one, and hand it to the nun once she is done.  One by one, they descend the steps, complete silence engulfing their group.  The large circular chamber they find themselves in is only the first room in an extensive underground network that connects the estate's cellar with the ancient ruins the house had been built upon.  The darkness that assaults them in the humid stone corridors is a physical thing, heavy and oppressive. 

"Stay behind me," Reynauld tells the rest of the group, taking point once more, just as he had done during the bandit ambush.  "You will be safer in the back." 

"Unless somethin' comes up on us from behind," Dismas points out helpfully, and finds four pairs of eyes trained on him.  "What?  'S true." 

"I thought we had you to prevent that from happening," Mallory comments drily. 

"Yeah, but what if they get me _first_?"  

"Scream," Reynauld suggests, and taps his helmet, his expression unreadable in the near-darkness.  "But do it loudly, so I can hear."  

 _And enjoy it_ , Dismas adds in his thoughts, sighs, and follows behind the others, one hand on his dagger, the other on his trusty flintlock. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amazing and talented Krila (check her out at: http://kriladoodles.tumblr.com/ ) drew a picture of Reynauld. Please find it here: http://kriladoodles.tumblr.com/post/157374214498/you-know-this-is-my-first-snow-since-before
> 
> For the TYPOS OF THE WEEK - I've got a few really good ones, you can check them out here:  
> http://bluraaven.tumblr.com/post/157452796921/proofreading-can-be-fun


	4. Reynauld

The walk back to the estate passes with Reynauld lost deep in thought.  He pays no attention to the village, or the path they take.  Dismas moves like he knows where he is going, and Reynauld follows, his eyes on the other man's back.  The knight's mind is like a nest of disturbed bees, buzzing with scattered thoughts, and no matter how hard he tries, he cannot make sense of the chaos. 

His barony, still a good eighty miles from the border, is as far north as he had travelled before, and he had only been there twice in his life.  The South may be lost to him forever, but he had failed to take into consideration the strangeness of the Northerners.  They are acknowledged by the church as people of the Faith, as they too obey the Verse of the Light – yet there are a few voices who would claim they are barely one step above non-believers. 

Reynauld has seen enough to confirm that indeed their worship differs from the customs of his homeland.  Here, the people's faith is like a flickering candle compared to the blazing sun of the South, and laws and the authorities' attitude concerning the pursuit and punishment of acts of heresy are rather lax. 

Reynauld had witnessed plenty acts of casual heresy answered with blatant nonchalance rather than outrage, and he no longer expects piety from the folks he encounters on the road. 

In the South, to insult a member of the Order of Light is a death sentence.  Even the king defers to the High Faith, and the most powerful families arose from the ranks of the Order.  It would have been his good right to take the attacking man's life in the name of the Light.  No lawman would dare question his decision.  Immunity from prosecution is granted to him by his status, which had only ever earned him respect, fearful looks, and mutters of the common people behind his back when they thought he couldn't hear. 

Reynauld isn't sure on whose behalf Dismas had acted when he had intervened.  He had known of the group's nature, as one recognizes their own, but he had stood with the knight.  Did he want to get into their good graces?  Was there some shred of solidarity between what is alike?  It would certainly make more sense than their own uneasy alliance. 

 

Before Reynauld can find answers, or come to any kind of a conclusion, they enter the house and find that Mallory has been waiting for them.  Normally, the knight would retire to ask for guidance in prayer, but this looks like an emergency that requires immediate attention.  His own dilemmas can wait. 

"What happened, lass?" Dismas asks, when it becomes obvious that something has deeply upset the heiress. 

Instead of instantly explaining what had transpired, Mallory offers them a seat first.  The act, the ritual of formality, appears to have a calming effect in and of itself.  It is something Reynauld is very much familiar with.  He lets himself sink into an old armchair that creaks loudly in protest to his weight while Dismas ignores the invitation altogether and leans against the chimney with his arms crossed. 

Mallory is struggling to find the right words to begin, while they wait for the bad news to hit them.  The moment stretches, growing to the point of discomfort, where the knight wishes Dismas would speak up again – the man never seems to shut up after all – if only so there was something to divert the focus.  Reynauld would offer some manner help, but though it is part of his vows to give succour to those in need, he knows not how.  His own ways of dealing with distress involve solitude and meditation.  He has never been close enough to another to know how to handle their emotions.  The knight lowers his gaze to his hands, scarred from nicks received both in practice and in battle, and tries to fight down the uneasiness building up inside him. 

"It seems that my grandfather was not only interested in the Occult, but actively practiced it," Mallory says at long last.  "His diary speaks of an evil, sealed away under the mansion." 

"D' ya know anythin' more concrete?" Dismas enquires cautiously. 

A good question.  'Evil' sounds very... abstract.  Reynauld had encountered many forms of it; sometimes obvious, but most often well camouflaged behind sympathy and sweet words that would seem like reason save for the warning of his heart. 

Mallory shakes her head.  "My grandfather's writings do not make for the lightest of reading.  I will try to find more clues, but the way he phrased certain sentences... I believe it is a physical thing my grandfather had locked up.  This house has an extensive tunnel system underneath it.  I know that some passageways reach as far as the cliffs by the sea, and then there is the Undercity.  The Warrens." 

"Undercity?" Reynauld asks because this is the first time he has heard anything like that mentioned. 

"Yes," Mallory nods.  "The Hamlet is built atop the ruins of a far older city, one that stems from a time before our civilization.  There are places where you can enter these ancient halls, though many have collapsed over time.  A darker tale suggests that there was a grand necropolis here, once." 

Dismas crouches down and begins to feed the fire more logs as the room sinks into silence and everyone turns what they had learned over in their heads. 

"Please tell me you have some good news," Mallory says after a while, when no one else speaks up.  

"We found the blacksmith," Dismas tells her.  "A man by the name o' Farley." 

"Farley?"  Mallory lifts her face from her palms.  "Farley is here? 

"Seems so."  The other man takes the poker to stir the coals, then straightens again.  "But that's about as far as good news go." 

"I would see him," Mallory decides and promptly rises from her seat.  "Did you speak to him?" 

"Not very much," Dismas says evasively.  "But apparently he's been here fer a while, so maybe he'll tell ya something he wouldn't tell us." 

Thus, Reynauld finds himself on the way to town for a second time today.  But he would rather accompany Mallory now than sit and wonder what manner of wickedness Mortimer Dumont had committed within these very four walls. 

When they enter the building, Farley appears to be busy sorting through some personal effects, and he and Mallory greet each other like old friends.  Of the smith's former companions there is no sign. 

They learn that while the townsfolk could not depart the Hamlet, they also were unable to approach the estate itself, which is strange, seeing as Dismas, Mallory and himself had no trouble doing so.

"So, we cannot leave," Mallory summarizes.  "Not even to get help from outside." 

"Perhaps you could," Farley muses, "You're of _his_ blood.  And it looks like those with you profit from your... protection?  Resistance?"  The old smith shakes his shaggy head.  "Don't ask me; I have no mind for magic.  But it's certainly worth giving it a shot.  For the rest of us, though, there's no way out.  We tried, but there's some spell that lies on the Old Road.  It would lead us in circles, and after hours we'd end up on one of the trails that leads straight back to the Hamlet. 

"What if we do not take the road?" Reynauld suggests, having listened closely to everything the smith had said. 

"Ya wanna trek through the _Weald_?" Dismas asks, incredulous, his eyebrows climbing into his hairline. 

"It is a forest," the knight replies, slightly confused as to where the problem lies, "Like any other." 

"The Weald ain't just another forest," Farley explains.  "It's older, and darker.  There's things that live between those trees, things that don't want to be disturbed." 

Every forest has at least one fable like this associated with it.  Mostly such tales serve as entertainment and to keep children out of the woods, but seldom is there more than a grain of truth in them.  And even if there was; "The Light can penetrate every darkness," Reynauld quotes the Verse. 

"Darkness maybe," the smith agrees, "But brambles and thickets?  If you want to give it a go, I won't be stoppin' you, but trust me when I say we've already thought of that solution.  Barely made it out alive." 

"What happened?" Mallory asks with concern in her voice. 

"I ain't entirely sure," the smith answers, running a hand across his bushy brows.  "It doesn't seem real, thinking of it now.  The forest was crawling with creatures, blighted and twisted and mad.  Rabid animals attacked us on sight.  We lost Jubert to lockjaw when a dog bit him in the arm.  But the worst part is; there's people out there, too.  Crazy, and slavering for blood just as the beasts do."  He lowers his voice into something that is barely above a whisper.  "Your grandfather did some terrible things." 

Rather than bow under the weight of such information, Mallory stands straighter.  "Whatever he did, I will set right again." 

"You were always a tough girl," Farley remarks with a fond if sad smile.  "I'll do whatever I can to help you and your companions, but I'll be honest with you.  What resources we had have grown thin over the years.  And if you don't find a way to open up the Old Road again, we may well run out of metal and tools altogether. 

Mallory nods in understanding, eying the worn but freshly swept floor, before she turns to address Dismas and Reynauld.  "Would you give us a moment?" 

 

They wait outside while Mallory and the smith catch up on more private matters.  Reynauld crouches down with his back to the house wall.  There is a crate with a small pile of logs drying in the sun, and he picks one up and turns it over in his hands.  It's good hardwood; he might look into getting some for himself later.  The crusader tosses it back, and it lands on top of the stack with a soft _thock_. 

When the knight looks up, he sees that Dismas has his legs crossed at the ankle and is rolling himself a cigarette.  He has a pair of red leather gloves tucked behind his belt.  They match the scarf around his neck in colour.  Reynauld isn't sure why he notices them now.  He stands again just as Dismas lights up, and the smell of tobacco wafts over and curls lazily around them. 

"Whaddya think they're talkin' 'bout in there, Rey," Dismas speaks up halfway through his smoke, quickly following it up with, "– I may call ya that?" 

"If it pleases you," the crusader replies frostily, a cold pressure spreading in his chest. 

"It's just," the northerner says, "That _Reynauld_ is a mouthful." 

Be that as it may; only one person had called him thus before.  And they were someone dear to him, and not a loud-mouthed thug he had met in a run-down tavern on the crossroads to a cursed village. 

"That is not for us to know," Reynauld answers the original question, since it is clear that Mallory and Farley have known each other for some time and their conversation is none of his or the other man's business. 

"I bet it's us, actually," Dismas continues as if he had not heard.  "Maybe my smarts and sense o' wit.  But 's probably how ya almost chopped a man's head off." 

"He gave insult to me, and attacked."  Was he supposed to let himself be struck down, or to let the besmirch to his honour go unchallenged? 

"What was it?  To insult a servant of the Light is to insult the Light itself?" Dismas quotes what Reynauld had told him this very morning.  "See?  I was listening."  He taps his ear. 

The knight can see him smirk around his cigarette.  From this angle, with the other man's left side facing him, he cannot see the scars Dismas likes to hide behind his scarf. 

"I do that sometimes.  But yeah.  I don't blame ya.  I would've shot the guy right in his ugly face if he'd tried that sorta shit with me."  He takes one last drag, then tosses what's left of his cigarette down, grinding it into the soft earth with his heel. 

The crusader turns to face him, and he can see the other man tense momentarily.  "Why did you stop me then?" Reynauld asks, the one thing he does not have to consult the Light in order to find out. 

Dismas tucks his hands under his armpits and stomps his feet, giving his surroundings a glare.  "Ya know what's funny?  I'm askin' myself the same damn thing." 

By all means this conversation is over, and Reynauld leans back against the wall, enjoying the sunlight on his face.  Next to him the other man paces restlessly, giving off the impression of being at war with himself. 

"Ya wanted ta know what it is I'm doin' here," Dismas says suddenly, and Reynauld opens his eyes and turns his head to regard him again.  "Before," he says, jerking his head in the direction of the field where they had confronted the villagers.  "Believe it or not, I'm tryin' ta be a better person." 

The blow strikes well, finding a weak spot in the crusader's armour, and punching right through.  It is easy for him to bare his shortcomings to the Light and to ask absolution for the wrongs he had wrought.  It is another thing entirely to confess even the shadow of doubt to another mortal sinner.  Reynauld looks down the dirt lane, over the broken ruins that used to be homes and softly admits, "Me too." 

"Well."  Dismas stops his fidgeting for a moment to look at the crusader with a piercing gaze.  "Not killing that fucker was probably a good start." 

Reynauld fears they might yet find the lowlifes turn on them, in which case he will deal with the situation as ordained by the Light, but until then he is interested in seeing what the fruits of Dismas' act of mercy will be.  "If I am to be 'Rey' does this mean you go by 'Dis?'" he enquires to take his mind off the matter for now. 

"I've gone by much worse," the other man assures him, and despite himself the knight can feel his lips tug into a smile before he school his features back into impassivity.  Now _that_ , he can imagine all too well. 

"Don't pull a muscle," Dismas mutters. 

"Pardon?" 

"Oh look, here they are," the northerner turns when the door behind them opens and Mallory steps out. 

 

"This was a trap," the Heiress says as soon as the door of the mansion falls shut behind them, locking away the outside world.  It is not difficult to tell that she is livid, with red spots blossoming high on her cheeks and ice in her voice.  "He _trapped_ me!"

What are their choices now?  To spend the rest of their lives in this squalid village?  Reynauld had seen the cities and wonders of the East, had lived in the holy city, and even the poor town he had called his home for three years after his exile had not been as remote or as downright pitiful as the Hamlet. 

"You, lass, might make it out yet," Dismas comments cynically.  "Others aren't so fortunate." 

"I did not come here to abandon the people, or you, or my duty!" 

Dismas lifts his hands defensively when she rounds on him.  "Just sayin'." 

"This is not helping," Mallory decides, huffs, and runs a hand through her hair, messing up her hairdo.  "You are quiet," she tells the knight, and puts her hands on her hips, her pose expectant of an answer. 

Reynauld prefers to listen and to work out the solution to any problem presented in due time rather than to speak rashly.  He definitely does not feel up to making any decisions of great consequence right now.  His eyes burn; feeling hot and dry.  Sleep eluded him last night much as the nights before, and... how many others before that?  His thoughts are slow and sluggish like a river choked with jetsam. 

"Evil and Darkness cannot prevail before the Light."  It is a simple truth he holds on to.  "We shall drive them out!" 

"Hey," Dismas says, succumbing to a fit of laughter out of nowhere before the Heiress can find a suitable reply.  "It could be worse." 

"Hm?"  Mallory and Reynauld both look at the man who appears to have been stricken by madness. 

"The tavern could be outta booze." 

 

"I bet ya twenty silver the Caretaker knew," Dismas says once they have retired to their rooms and the door closes behind them.  

Even if he were a betting man, that is some odds Reynauld would not take.  It seems very unlikely that the old man, who had been so close to Mallory's ancestor, did not know at least a part of the truth, and failed to divulge it.  There is something else that does not add up.  Reynauld fights down the exhaustion that is weighing him down and opens his eyes, looks towards the other bed where Dismas is lying stretched out on his back with one arm under his head. 

"If no one from the village could leave," the knight asks, turning the events of the past days over in his head, "How is it that he could?" 

He can see the glow of the fire reflected in the other man's eyes when they dart over to meet his for a second.  "Makes ya wonder, eh?" Dismas asks softly. 

It is not a pleasant tone.  For a while Reynauld believes he will say something more, but all the other man does is eventually shrug, turn over so that his back is to the crusader, and mutter, "Sweet dreams." 

Reynauld considers it a good night if he has none.  He too closes his eyes, but all that does is heighten the feeling of strangeness.  The air feels different around here; humid and chilly, and it smells rich of greenery rather than sun-warmed bedrock and dust.  Their dinner had been a quiet, cheerless affair, and though well cooked, the meal had been bland to his taste.  One of the things Reynauld misses most about the south – apart from the warmth – is the food; richly spiced dishes and ripe fruit. 

He spends a wistful moment remembering dining on braised lamb with dates and sweet potatoes – not that he had often eaten this well.  The Order had deeper pockets and more resources than the regular army, yet he had heard stories of soldiers cooking up their boots and belts during sieges, or when the supply lines broke. 

But he does not wish to linger on the toil of war, of cities of brimstone and gold going down under a human sea of steel.  Of blood congealing on gem-encrusted tiles of places once holy, now cleansed of false gods. 

Minutes pass, then an hour.  The moon is now visible from where Reynauld is lying.  When it disappears again, he gives up on sleep.  The knight adds a few logs to the fire, moving quietly so as not to wake Dismas, then sits on the bed with a pillow under his back and his eyes closed, and lets his thoughts drift. 

Inadvertently they wander to today's events.  By the grace of the Light, the Order, and his sacrifice to lord and land, he is all that is good and holy.  Yet today he witnessed a life saved where he would have taken it without thought.  Today, a foul-mouthed, vulgar mercenary had stayed his hand, had called him out for murder. 

And... he hadn't been wrong.  The familiarity of the situation is bitter in his throat. 

Reynauld takes a deep, albeit shaky breath. 

How can a mortal mind ever truly grasp the will of the Light? 

This squalid Hamlet, these cursed lands and blighted woods; are they where he can finally redeem himself?  It is hard to believe that anything of consequence could happen here, so far away from _civilization,_ when he had failed to find salvation and enlightenment in the Holy Land.  But he had set his course, and he would be forsaking his vows if he steered away from it. 

The crusader only knows he must above all else keep Faith.  To stray from the path of righteousness; therein lies damnation. 

_Is this to be my test then?_

He thinks of the people he has met and the dangers they have overcome together, and tasks that may yet lie before them. 

This, the blank state of meditation, – it is the best rest he can hope for. 

 

When Reynauld wakes, he feels disoriented and more exhausted than he had yesterday evening, but he knows that the state will pass eventually, once his mind and body become more active.  He picks up his rosary again, if only to give his idle hands something to do until it is time to say his morning prayers. 

Eventually Dismas too wakes, and with nary a word said between them, the two men descend for breakfast.  Once they have eaten, they prepare for their first venture below the mansion. 

The armour is a familiar weight on his shoulders and hips, allowing Reynauld to be someone, something else.  Not himself, not a human susceptible to mortal flaws, but an instrument of the Light, blade and shield, armoured in faith and steel.  Kings and armies cannot stop the warrior whose task is done in the service of the Light.  Neither will whatever spawn lurks in the wake of Mortimer Dumont's sin. 

Mallory's blood is the key that opens a gate made through sorcery; extinguishing all but two of their torches.  The remaining ones splutter, but steady after a moment.  The Light is with them; or at least it is watching, judging them worthy to continue this quest. 

"Will you take the torch, Sister?" the knight asks Junia.  He has his hands full with a longsword and shield, even though the latter is strapped to his arm.  She does so, holding it high overhead so as to best illuminate the corridor.  The darkness that presses in on them from all sides is as unnatural in origin as the malady that lies upon the land; born of foul magic. 

Reynauld takes point.  The usual scrape of his boots resounds harshly and much too loudly in the heavy silence.  From what could be an any estate's wine cellar – the walls are even lined with wooden racks filled with dozens of dust-covered bottles – a wide archway leads deeper underground. 

They have barely passed it when something strange happens to the corridors.  Before his eyes, the stone appears to melt and shift, stretching, swirling, then reforming and setting again.  The archway remains, but now there is nothing beyond it but the same violet-tinged blackness of the seal Mallory had undone just minutes before. 

"Feckin' hell," Dismas curses quietly.  "Did ya all see that?" 

"This blackness – it is unlike anything I have ever seen!" Junia gasps, her hand clenching around the handle of the torch. 

"Nihil potest extinguere Lumen," Reynauld reminds the sister.  Surely their being here must have a purpose, a reason.  Light, after all, shines brightest in dark places.  "Lux vult." 

"Lux vult," she breathes in response, and the words steady her.  Any traces of fear drain from her face and are replaced by determination. 

"Looks like there is no going back that way," Mallory says, her voice wavering somewhere between wary disbelief and panic. 

Reynauld hesitates, before tentatively stretching out one arm towards the nearest wall. 

"Don't touch 'em!" Dismas says sharply, but it's too late. 

The crusader's hand makes contact with the stone.  Even through his gauntlet he can tell that it is cool and slick from the damp, but definitely solid. 

A deep sigh escapes someone in the back. 

"We could try the blood again?" Paschal suggests, much too merrily for the situation. 

"I don't think it's going to be as easy this time," Mallory answers, marginally calmer.  "The diary spoke of a key... I thought I was the key to get past the seal.  Now I believe that we need to find something to open the way back again.  But it can't hurt to try, right?"  Despite the waver in her voice, she holds out her am without hesitation. 

The doctor makes another shallow cut into Mallory's forearm, the second thin line joining the first, already scabbed over one. 

This time though, when Paschal flicks it at the seal, the blood has no effect.  The barrier flickers briefly, but remains stable. 

"Allow me," Junia says while the rest of them stare at the magic blocking their way out of the cellar, transfixed.  The Vestal lightly grasps Mallory's arm in her hands before she he puts a palm on the cuts and in a burst of golden light, the skin closes under her touch, not leaving behind even the faintest trace of a scar. 

Reynauld can feel the sharp pinpricks of sweat all over his back, accompanied by a choking dryness in his mouth.  'It is just two small a scratches,' he tells himself, 'Mallory surely is glad to be rid of them.'  It helps, a little bit.  He has to actively keep himself from reaching out to soothe an ache that it not there. 

_It is not real._

Instead, he kneels to ask the Light for its blessing. 

"Light seize me!" the knight prays sinking down on one knee, "Make me your instrument!  Light, guide my sword and grace my strikes that I may turn away the blackness!" 

He rises again, without an answer.  The Light will do with them as it wills, but that does not mean man is free from the boon and burden that is choice.  His is to stand fast in the face of adversity, to be a soldier of Faith when despair reaches for the hearts of others. 

A tense hush descends over the group, not breached by as much as a whisper. 

They have no choice but to follow the path that is set out before them, caught in the trap Mortimer Dumont has laid for them.  The walls close in on them once they enter the corridor.  They seem aware, alive even.  Invisible eyes track their every step from the shadows.  Watching.  Waiting. 

How long does their group walk these accursed hallways?  

They have to wrap the torches with oil-soaked rags twice to prevent them from going out, but the time doesn't seem right, somehow.  It is neither short nor long.  Have mere minutes passed?  Or was it hours?  Proper lamps or less makeshift torches would be better, but all of those have been extinguished when the magic barrier collapsed and all attempts to rekindle them have failed so far. 

By now the humid air is cold enough this far underground that they can see their breath; white puffs of mist escaping numb lips. 

The first time the dead assault them, Reynauld moves out of habit, his body acting before his mind can comprehend what it is that lurches at him from a shadowy alcove.  Once human, now it is a skeletal body clad in the remains of a hauberk and with a rusty shortsword grasped in bony, fleshless fingers. It staggers towards them, brandishing the sword in one hand, the other reaching towards the crusader's head, as if it wanted to grasp his throat, and crush the cartilage protected by his bevor, or dig the tips of its fingers into the soft flesh of the knight's face.  

In its frenzy to get to him, it practically drives itself onto his blade, but there are no organs to puncture; no blood to spill.  So instead Reynauld strikes it with the pommel of his sword, and the skull caves in on itself, shattered into pieces.  Broken teeth fall to the floor, shimmering in the low light like pearls.  And when the magic reanimating the body finally fails, and the corpse collapses in a heap of bones, Reynauld can see a dozen more advance upon them.

A woman is screaming, the high-pitched sound bouncing off the walls making it sound as if it was coming from all directions.  Yet to him it seems far in the distance, muted by the roar of blood in his ears and layers of protective gear. 

The undead do not care.  Unhearing and unseeing stumble forward on stiff-jointed legs, and every now and then the light of the torch reveals the shine of what few pieces of metal have not corroded over the centuries. 

As terrifying as the foe is at first, the skeletal figures are just dry, brittle bone, and Reynauld's hallowed sword cuts cleanly through the first wave of the undead.  But when they fall, cloven in two, it is not their end.  Some break apart and disintegrate, but of several others the upper part drags itself on.  Their jaws work, greedily snapping shut, the clack of teeth the only sound these unholy creatures can produce. 

The knight is forced to remember the bandits who ambushed them on the Old Road. 

Perhaps Dismas had been right about them after all. 

Those old weapons brandished by the undead may be no match against his armour, but even through leather and steel Reynauld can feel their touch when they grasp his legs and ankles.  They swarm him faster than he can slay them, each body felled instantly replaced by another as they try to drag him down with them. 

The world grows hazy.  Shouts and screams, and the sounds of battle; all are muffled behind a wall of white fog.  His sword arm grows heavy and he wonders what the point of fighting is anymore.  The crusader feels an icy cold burn in his chest as the dead call him to the grave with familiar voices and the sweet promise of rest and darkness. 

He longs for it, more than he has anything else. 

A shot goes off behind Reynauld; a skeleton lets go of his am, knocking off another. 

The knight lifts one leg, heavy like his boots were filled with lead, and stomps down on a corpse, breaking its spine.  The lethargy begins to lift as the will to live reinstates itself.  The mist clears, just for a moment. 

Then, the hallway is filled with smoke – the real kind this time.  It is bitter on his tongue, and not even Reynauld's visor can protect him from the sting as his eyes tear up.  He is effectively blinded, unable to make out more than blurry forms through the acrid vapours. 

Someone – or something – crashes into him from the side, the force of the impact making him stagger.  A woman curses behind him, and he feels more than hears metal grind on metal as a blow glances off his armour. 

Not knowing whether what hit him is a friend or foe, he holds his shield in a high guard, and from behind its cover he blindly stabs in the direction the enemies came from.  When something hits the knight's shield, knocking him back and jarring his arm, he pushes back and kicks out, before swinging his sword in a wild arc; a move that would most likely cost his life in battle.  But these enemies are unthinking, unfeeling and relentless.  The blow gets him some breathing space, the pressure falling away. 

A burst of light from behind the knight illuminates the corridor for a split second, and the fiends flinch back from its radiance, clutching at empty eye sockets in a parody of the living. 

"Light, take you!" Junia shouts, brandishing mace and versebook with equal fervour. 

Her spell burns away the last residue of smoke, and Reynauld charges forward, into the thick of the fray.  He smites every corpse that comes within reach of his sword, keeping them away from his comrades at every cost.  If he goes down, they will be overrun and without protective gear of any kind, neither of them can last long. 

There is no finesse to this battle.  It is brutal, each chop tearing through the decayed bodies.  Limbs are sliced off, but the dead do not bleed or cry out in pain.  They do not drop, screaming in agony, as their life blood flows out of them and stains the ground crimson, making the footing treacherous. 

The simply keep coming. 

Reynauld tries not to think about how they are desecrating these bodies; but it is fight or die and he consoles himself that these empty shells are no longer the vessels of the people they once were.  Empty of a soul, they have been filled with malice – and purpose.  Right next to him another skeleton collapses, its head disintegrating from one of Dismas' bullets. 

Then, silence. 

It hits them so suddenly, that the loudest sound they can hear is that of their own laboured breathing. 

"Is everyone alright?" Mallory asks into the silence that follows.  There are a few nods, ayes and an affirmative hum from Paschal. 

Reynauld does not participate, but tears off his helmet.  His eyes feel dry, an itchy burn making him want to rub them so badly, even though he knows it's probably a bad idea.  At least the cool air on his face is bliss after the stifling heat of the helmet.  He feels the beginning of a headache form from the weight, and rolls his shoulders, rubbing his neck. 

"Sorry!  I'm so sorry!" Paschal apologizes, appearing next to him out of nowhere with a waterskin.  "Better wash it out," the doctor suggests, pulling the stopper and pouring the water into his cupped hands after the knight has taken off his gauntlets. 

It stings at first, but after a moment the unbearable itch becomes less, until it finally subsides.  Reynauld slumps against the wall, focused on nothing but getting his lungs full of chilly air, while he tugs at his collar to let in even the slightest waft.  Beneath his armour he is hot and sweating, but that might change quickly once he cools out.  It would be better if they kept moving, for as long as they can. 

Reynauld sees Dismas nudge the remains of one of the skeletons with the tip of his boot.  "Reanimated bones... ," he can hear the other man wheeze, "How can such a thing exist!?"

"Necromancy," Junia replies between gasps.  "A foul art, outlawed by the Light." 

Dismas mutters something incomprehensible in answer, but when he looks up, his and Reynauld's gazes lock. 

"Ya good?" the other man asks. 

Reynauld nods in answer.  The shock of seeing the dead rise and attack them still has him shaken – and he is far from the only one. But while he may have been bruised and knocked around a bit during the skirmish, no blow had made it past his armour.  But not everyone wears mail and plate. 

That no one else got hurt either by the friend or foe is a matter of sheer luck. 

"This ain't gonna work," Dismas presses out after having a look at the assorted members of their group, as if he had read the crusader's very thoughts. 

The other man's excellent marksmanship may have saved him before, but he also has the lingering suspicion that several of the blows he had received have been dealt to him by his companions. 

It is only by the Light's grace that none of the others were shot or stabbed during that skirmish.  If they wish to proceed, they will need to do so with some semblance of order; and thus the crusader assigns each member of their party a position.  He puts himself in the front, the bulwark that will intercept any attackers and keep them off the others.

Junia is slightly behind and to his left, her task to keep the torch burning and summoning the Light's radiance, as well as to help anyone who should suffer an injury.  Paschal is in the middle, keeping enemies at bay with her polearm or pinning them against the wall until someone else can finish them off.  To the far right and back, Dismas' path is unobstructed.  Mallory's task is to look out after herself and to help out those who call for aid. 

The women nod while Dismas listens to the instructions with dark, unreadable eyes, watching Reynauld from above the rim of his scarf.  Weighting the knight's decision.  But he takes up his place without protest.  

They press on. 

The further they get, the more they seem to move backwards in time.  This part of the ruins is in decidedly worse shape than the corridors closer to the cellar.  When they come up on a blockage where the tunnel appears to have caved in, there is a breach in the stonework right next to it. 

"Left or straight ahead?" Junia asks.  If they moved some of the rubble, they could possibly create an opening large enough for them to squeeze through. 

"Left," Dismas answers without hesitating. 

Reynauld agrees with him.  They have no time to lose, Junia and he both cannot sustain the torches on faith alone for very long.  He shudders at the thought of being trapped here, underground, wandering in the dark with no food and only enough water to prolong the suffering.  Forced to wait until the dead come for him, to make him one of their own...

He tries to shake such dreadful visions from his mind, but the unease, the awareness, lingers.  At this point turning back is not an option.  Step by step they realize the full extent of this maze, and that without maps or knowledge of its twists and turns they might never find another way out.  Reynauld can feel his companions' disquiet, but at this point they have gone too far to give up.  They have to keep going. 

The narrow passage opens up into a large chamber with an arched ceiling so high, the flickering torchlight barely reaches it.  Columns line the length of the hall, and when something crunches underfoot, Reynauld's attention is drawn to the floor.  Once, it may have been a ornate mosaic, painted tiles and colourful stones arranged in swirling designs– now it is mostly broken. 

Statues with blank eyes watch them from shadowy alcoves, holding eternal vigil, and between them...

Between them, coffins line the walls. 

"I guess the tales about the necropolis were true." Mallory says in a hushed tone, as if afraid to raise her voice to a normal volume. 

The last thing they expect in this Light-forsaken place is to run into another live human being.  The woman is clad in a strange black garb, antiquated and frayed from too much wear. 

She stares at them with wide, fear-filled eyes.  And before they can as much as call out to her, she raises a crude staff, turns on her heels and runs, rounding the corner, and disappearing out of sight.  They make to follow, but then a hollow crack stops them dead in their tracks. 

Left and right, the coffins start to break open. 

Most of these bodies are in a far worse state than those they had encountered before, although there are also a couple stronger and better preserved than the ones they have faced before.  Those pose a serious threat, but what the weaker skeletons lack in strength and in limbs, they make up in sheer numbers. 

They have to retreat, back to where the tunnel provides a convenient chokepoint, and only a few enemies can come at them at a time.  Bodies fall by the dozen, bones littering the corridors until they pile up, creating small mounds. 

"Aren't you dead yet?" Mallory gasps, one wild swing pinning her adversary to the wall long enough that the knight can crush its skull. 

"They were," Paschal says, her dreamy voice somehow rising above the clamour of the fight. 

"That's the problem!" Dismas yells from behind, but he holds his position, his fingers a blur as he reloads his flintlocks.  "Gods!  The earth crawls with these bastards!" 

The unintended barricade ends up working in their favour.  Junia calls upon the Light, and whenever it flares up, the foe reels, recoiling as if in actual pain.  Paschal and Mallory's polearms keep anything trying to climb over at bay, while Reynauld handles the close quarter combat, and Dismas thins out their enemy's ranks from the back, until finally, nothing moves anymore. 

Perhaps it is just Reynauld's imagination, but... no!  The torches do actually burn brighter now, greedily licking up. 

"I see something further up ahead!"  Junia calls out.  After the battle, there is no point to being quiet anymore.  If there is anything or anyone nearby, by now they know they are here. 

At first glance, the structure looks like a table from a distance, but once they get close they can see how massive it is.  And carved into its surface are depictions of some grotesque form of life, with a multitude of eyes, teeth and limbs.  It looks like something that had come straight out of the mason's nightmare.  Below the _thing_ , humans kneel, prostrating themselves on the ground. 

Not a mere table then.  An altar. 

And on top of it – Dismas grabs the object before anyone can stop him.  So much for caution.  But instead of some cursed artefact one would expect in such a place, it turns out to be...

"Moustache cream?"  Dismas' voice drops into a dangerous growl.  "This why we did this?  Fer a bottle o' fekkin' moustache cream!?  Oh, the old cunt had a sense of humour alright." 

"I think... ," Mallory says hesitantly, "I think this may be the key." 

"What, ya wanna style up yer beard, lass?" 

"No," she retorts with more force.  "But it is an item that belonged to my grandfather, and his diary spoke of a key, so unless you have a better idea – ?" 

"What do we have to lose?" Junia asks, and Dismas huffs, nods, and runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it up. 

"Yeah.  Shit, sorry.  Ain't yer fault yer pap was a loony perp."  He points at the tin in Mallory's palm.  "Let's hope this works." 

 

In the end they do not have to get creative.  The mere presence of the small tin sears a hole in the fabric of the magic with the same ease a flame would burn through paper.  Mallory holds the ancestral trinket higher, and bit by bit the seal flakes off, dissolving and disappearing, until the archway is once more just a stone arcade.  The darkness beyond is the simple gloom of a cellar.  Visible in the light of their torch is the staircase that led them here. 

They storm forward as one, racing up the stairs and bursting through the door and into the estate.  The mansion is as it was; old, dusty – quiet, save for when the floor creaks.  There is even a fire in the living room chimney, though it is burning low.  How much time has passed, up here?  How long were they truly gone? 

Reynauld tugs off his gauntlets and stuffs them behind his belt, before crouching before the fireplace.  The warmth it still gives off is like a balm to a wound.  The realization of what they have been through is just setting in now that they have time to consider it. 

He wonders, have they passed the test?  They must have, if the Light has further use for them. 

Junia and Paschal both perch on some seats.  Their rigid posture and the weapons they do not let go of betray how very much on edge they still are.  Mallory outright collapses into one of the plush armchairs, half-swallowed by the cushions. 

Only Dismas is pacing – again.  The jerky movement is getting on Reynauld's nerves.  He is about to snap at the man to stop, when Dismas does.  Comes to a halt right in front of the window, and stands there as if rooted to the ground. 

"Uh, Rey?  Mallory?  Everyone?" 

The knight cannot discern what it is exactly that he hears Dismas' voice, only that it is not the usual drawl he had come to associate with the other man. 

Dismas turns back to the room, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.  "I think ya should see this." 

Reynauld approaches the window with a sinking feeling that turns into blank dread when he sees the display outside.  The Hamlet has disappeared, and instead of its usual blue, a maelstrom has opened in the sky, swirling with the colours of the void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry about the delay in posting this chapter. The reason is that I work on another DD story (this time set in a post-apocalyptic AU) in collaboration with a friend. After a month of hard work we're currently ~150.000 words in and still going strong. So stay tuned for late fall/winter!
> 
> Typo of the... month?: "But it's certainly worth giving it a shit."


	5. Dismas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the super late update. Life's been crazy – still is – with exams and a proper job lining up. Broken Few is coming along nicely too, and this story is not forgotten or given up on. I know the waiting sucks, but I hope to reward you with the best of DD stories! (I may also be sideeying a certain AU... )
> 
> So one thing I want to know from you readers: which format do you prefer – with or without indentations at the beginning of each paragraph? An example for without is We are the Flame, one for with is the Broken Few snippets. I'm really curious what you think and look forward to your feedback.

"Lux, tueri animas nostras!" 

When Dismas turns around, Junia has one hand curled on her chest, and her pallor is almost indistinguishable in colour from the white of her nun's headdress. 

Mallory has stopped mid-stride, her lips parted in a gasp that never makes it past them, and Paschal –

Paschal's eyes are wide as a child's as she takes in the unnatural spectacle happening outside of the window.  "Wow!  Have you ever seen anything like this?" the doctor exclaims in wonder, peeling her nose from the glass to look from one person to another.  She appears to be completely oblivious to the fact that none of them are as excited about a giant magical hole in the sky as she is.  

Whatever she's taking, Dismas wants some for himself, if only to help him sleep at night. 

But it seems rude to outright ask for a drug recommendation, and since he's all about becoming a better man, Dismas instead chooses to observe the last member of their group. 

Reynauld is as straight-backed and tight-lipped as ever, and his face betrays neither fear nor disbelief.  The knight has the infinite blackness of the Void reflected in his eyes, and Dismas wonders what kind of man it takes to gaze into the Abyss and not flinch back from what he sees there. 

Dismas looks away again. 

He might not speak the Heaven's language, but he doesn't have to in order to understand the Sister's prayer – he's heard its like often enough. 

_Light, save our souls._

But why would the Light choose him for salvation?  Him, a man already damned on account of his sins? 

He is all too aware that in this company, he is the odd one out, standing beside a doctor, a noble, a Sister Vestal, and... Reynauld.  So here they are; a warrior of Light – someone who would claim communion with the Divines – and a back-alley cutthroat, sharing a purpose and a room upstairs.  It's madness. 

And it is all around them, invisible but just as deadly as toxic gas in a mine shaft.  It has poisoned this place and already he can feel its sharp teeth gnawing at his mind, his sanity. 

Dismas rubs both palms over his face, hard enough for it to border on painful.  He can feel several days' worth of stubble as well as the bony ridges of his face, sculpted by too many hunger days and nights spent sleeping in roadside ditches.  It brings back a sense of who he is, and where.  It also banishes these unbidden thoughts, for now.  'Tis good enough, at least until Dismas can get his hands on some alcohol. 

Thankfully, he knows just the place where he can get some.  Grandfather Dumont liked to have his booze close at hand – and now Dismas understands why, if this kind of shit happened regularly around here. 

He isn't looking forward to the prospect of descending the stairs to the cellar, but the only other alternative is the bar, and he wants to track all the way there even less than he wants to face the darkness of the mansion's underbelly.  

Only Reynauld notices him exiting the room, and the knight doesn't comment on it. 

Dismas carefully searches the doorway for any signs of magic, even gives it a few pokes with the hilt of his dagger to make sure there is absolutely nothing supernatural about it.  But this time there is only wood and stone, ordinary as can be.  He leaves the door wide open nonetheless and whistles a tune as he hurries down. 

The circular room looks the same as the first time they descended down here and Dismas tries hard not to focus on the walls, how they seem to be closing in, eager to trap him as they have their group earlier.  Only this time he is alone, and the thought is enough to make him shiver and break out in a cold sweat. 

Fighting the urge to turn and flee back upstairs, Dismas instead busies himself with inspecting the shelves.  They are full of bottles cocooned in a thick layer of dust that sticks to the dull glass.  The labels are yellow and wavy from humidity and the ink has run, making most of the writing indecipherable.  Not that it would do him any good if it hadn't.  Dismas knows his numbers well enough; his mother had made sure of that, but letters are something reserved for the upper classes. 

In the end, he just grabs the nearest three bottles – better to take one extra than have to go back for some more later – and returns upstairs, taking the steps three at a time.  When he kicks the door shut behind him, it feels like muzzling a feral beast.  The danger is still here and to be wary of, but for the time being it is contained. 

Just as the highwayman returns to the living room, the gloom is lit up by a net of lightning racing over the sky.  A storm of thunder and magic rolls over the countryside, and then disperses, wisps of swirling blue and purple lazily drifting through the sky, becoming paler and paler until they fade into nothingness. 

"Thank the Light," the Vestal breathes, her relief audible.  

"What do you think this was?" Mallory finds the courage to ask after a few more seconds of shocked silence. 

"Nuthin' good, that's fer sure," Dismas says to announce his presence.  All heads turn to him, even that of the crusader.  Dismas lifts the bottles.  The heiress sure doesn't look like she disapproves. 

"Court'sy o' yer gramp." 

Mortimer Dumont is watching them from his spot on the staircase, eyes black as a pit adder scales glimmering with malicious amusement. 

"He shot himself to close the wards until someone of his bloodline reopened them."  Mallory speaks slowly, and her voice gains sureness with every word. 

"Stab 'im in the dick!"  The suggestion comes out in a low growl as Dismas struggles to get the cork out of the first of the bottles.  He stops short in surprise when Mallory passes by him and actually does just that. 

Under different circumstances, the highwayman may have winced in sympathy as several inches of spear are thrust into the portrayed old man's crotch and the wall behind him.  This time though he feels it is wholly deserved. 

"Do you know what would have happened if I had ventured down there alone!?"  Mallory whips around, two angry red spots blooming on her cheeks.  She wipes at her sweaty brow to get a few strands of wild hair unstuck from it.  The spear, white-tipped from scratching the stone but none the worse for wear, is still in her other hand. 

Dismas makes a mental note to never piss her off.  He is rather attached to his balls and he prefers they stay attached to him. 

"Aye, lass."  Dismas replies and takes one of the silver cups that Paschal has found in a nearby cabinet.  "But ya didn't, so best not dwell on that." 

"What have you got there?"  The heiress picks up a bottle, and turns it so she can read the label.  "152 Reserve."  Her eyebrows lift in surprise.  "This is a pleasant vintage." 

Dismas wipes the inside of the cup clean of dust and pours Mallory a generous amount of the dark red liquid.  "Boss first," he announces, because already Paschal is thrusting another cup at him, and even Junia is lining up for a little pick-me-up. 

Mallory knocks back her drink without waiting for the others.  Half a heartbeat later, her face scrounges up and Dismas can jump out of the way just in time before she spits it back out. 

"Wine's gone bad?" the highwayman asks, his heart sinking.  Seems this is to be one of _these_ times.

"This isn't wine," Mallory croaks, and hurries to the kitchens to wash out her mouth. 

"What is it then?" Junia asks, reaching for a bottle to see for herself. 

Dismas sniffs the dregs.  Immediately, a cloying coppery and sweet smell assaults his nose, and Dismas has to admire Malory's iron self-control.  He would have just hurled right on the carpet. 

Junia puts her cup away again, the expression on her round face as weary as Dismas is feeling all of a sudden.  Meanwhile, Paschal is eying Mallory's abandoned cup and its contents with interest.  "Huh." 

Dismas can hear her mutter, "How did they keep it from congealing?  I wonder... ," before he catches the doctor dipping her pinkie finger into the leftover liquid and holding it to her tongue with an expression of intense concentration.  "This is most curious." 

"Fuck this," Dismas mutters and just like that he is done with this day.  "Sorry folks, I'm off ta bed." 

Junia tears away her eyes from the doctor and picks up her mace.  "It seems best we rest and pray to the Light for guidance," the Vestal agrees in a tired voice. 

"Ya do that," Dismas tells her.  "I'll go ahead an' do the restin' part."  Turning, he almost collides with Reynauld – Reynauld who appears to have completely deserted his corporeal body and is just standing there, with his helmet tucked under one arm and an empty gaze. 

Dismas raps one knuckle against his breast plate to get the knight's attention.  "You comin'?" 

Reynauld startles like a person woken from sleep and looks around the room as if lost.  "Are we dismissed?" he asks no one in particular. 

"I believe we are, brother," Junia replies before Dismas can.  "I'm sure the lady Mallory knows where to find thee if there are matters thou needst to discuss." 

Reynauld hesitates before he slowly nods in answer.  Dismas observes that he has the mannerism of someone high on drugs, but the knight lacks the physical aspects of an addict.  Maybe holy water and incense have negative side-effects too.  Maybe Paschal's smoke bombs do. 

"C'mon, Armour," Dismas says, not unkindly, tugging on the crusader's elbow to get him moving.  "If ya crash on tha floor, I ain't draggin' ya upstairs." 

The words are running together in his mouth, but he is too tired to care, to pretend he is someone he is not.  Reynauld moves of his own accord, thankfully, although he seems to be favouring his left leg. 

It isn't until the door falls shut behind them and the cool of the room begins to seep through his clothes that Dismas realizes he is missing something. 

"Shite!"  He doesn't know what to make of Reynauld flinching at the profanity.  He ain't in the mood for a lecture, but the crusader doesn't give him one, so Dismas simply adds, "Fergot me coat." 

He doesn't have much to his name other than a nice bounty and a ban on the premises of several establishments, and he likes to keep what few possessions are his close.  Just in case. 

Junia is gone and the fire in the chimney has almost burned out, given how no one had added any more wood since Reynauld had lit it right after their return, but there are voices coming from one of the adjacent rooms. 

"I am sure you wish for reimbursement?" Dismas can hear Mallory ask when he sneaks into the living room, keeping to the deep shadows cast by ancient furniture.  Old habits and all that.  He sure ain't spying on the two women when he risks a peek. 

Paschal, however, waves Mallory off, and takes the bottles of blood as payment.  Dismas prefers not to think about what she plans on doing with them.  He is beginning to feel a twinge of sympathy for Lenn.  Lenn, who now owes him a month's worth of supply with booze, he remembers, feeling marginally better. 

Tomorrow he'll make the barman regret agreeing to the deal. 

Dismas snatches up his coat and returns to his shared bedroom.  The pulling sensation in his side has steadily increased, but it is only now that he truly becomes aware of how his entire chest is aching, every breath putting strain on the newly scarred skin that has yet to stretch. 

He is not the only one in pain. 

A man in his profession knows to find and exploit the small weaknesses that most people like to hide, and so it doesn't take Dismas long to notice how the corners of Reynauld's mouth are down, his lips pressed into a firm line.  The knight uses his left in place of his right, his dominant hand, to tug open the straps of his armour. 

"Need any help with that?" Dismas asks, tossing his coat onto his bed. 

He expects the knight to rebuff him, but to his astonishment Reynauld nods after a moment's hesitation.  Up close, Dismas can see fine decorative etchings along the edge of the armour, as well as the cuts and miniscule dents that mar the otherwise shiny surface of the metal. 

"If you could just undo this clasp."  The crusader dips and turns his head, to better observe the highwayman out of the corners of his eyes. 

He does as he has been asked to, opening the clasp on Reynauld's right shoulder blade, and the one on the very top of his neck and watches as bit by bit the armour begins to come off.  Dismas gets to see how each piece is fitted so as to offer the best protection while still allowing the wearer their full range of movement. 

He does his best not to think about how much the whole suit of armour must be worth.  More than everything  he had ever owned in life combined, that's for sure. 

When Reynauld removes the cap, Dismas is amused to find that his hair sticks every which way.  He curses the sudden urge to run his fingers through the unruly tresses to comb them into some semblance of order. 

It is a bad time for such thoughts.  An exhausted mind is a fickle thing. 

The hauberk rattles as it pools on the bed, almost like a liquid, and the padded jacket is carefully hung over the back of the chair at the desk.  Reynauld stretches his neck and rotates his shoulders.  There is a hollow pop that makes Dismas hiss in sympathy, but Reynauld sighs in relief, slumping now that all the weight has been lifted off him. 

Summer is almost over, and in the crisp night air, the knight is steaming.  There's not so much as a nick in his tunic, but his eyes are red-rimmed.  Whatever Paschal had hit him with, left them puffy and irritated. 

"Better go wash that shit out," Dismas says, circling a finger in front of his own face. 

Reynauld's head snaps up, the tension returning to his posture.  He appears to have forgotten about the other man, but after a moment he relaxes again, a weary nod telling Dismas that he intends to follow through with that idea. 

 

A soft knock announces Reynauld's return a couple of minutes later.  He has changed his tunic, so he has probably washed up too. 

"I could do with a basin and some hot water," Dismas greets him from the depths of his bed, although now that he's gotten vertical he doesn't plan on getting up anytime soon. 

"Is there a bathhouse?" Reynauld asks although he doesn't sound like he really cares. 

"There was once.  It closed down," Dismas informs him.  He is ready to bet the last of his snuff that Reynauld will not follow his example and simply fall into bed.  He smirks when he is proven right.  Recognizing patterns is a useful skill to have, and one he has honed. 

Reynauld checks his equipment, putting away each piece only after it has received a thorough examination.  Then, he kneels to pray.  Just like he had yesterday. 

'He should learn to take care of his bodily needs as well as his spiritual ones,' is the last thing Dismas remembers thinking before he passes out. 

 

That night, Dismas learns the hard way that Reynauld screams in his sleep. 

 

His own dreams are uneasy, full of ever-shifting corridors and the search for an exit he knows he will never find in time.  A small bubble of panic begins to fill his chest, and it grows with every step he takes. He cannot find a way out of the labyrinth of hallways, and he is being pursued by someone or something that he only manages to catch glimpses of out of the corners of his eyes.  If he doesn't escape, he will die here ant he corridors will become his tomb. 

In desperation, Dismas scratches at the stone walls with torn, bleeding hands and cracked nails, and he screams for them to  let him out.  _He'd done his time, he'd –_

Dismas wakes abruptly to a voice that is not his own, shouting in a language he does not understand. 

He jerks up too fast, gets tangled in something, and crashes to the floor.  It's dark, too dark to see, and his heart is pounding in his throat.  All he is aware of is that he has to fight or flee – and he does not yet know which. 

Before his situation or his surroundings become any clearer, the door bursts open, and it's pure reflex for him to point the gun at the intruder.  By the light of a single candle, Dismas can see Mallory charge into the room – she and her boar spear.  The fact that she's wearing a nightgown does not make the weapon any less intimidating. 

The door bangs against the wall, and Reynauld wakes with a gasp, reaching for his sword by his side.  

The heiress looks around with wide eyes, taking in the scene – Dismas lying on the floor, blankets twisted tightly around him, Reynauld sitting up slowly, and her mouth opens and closes a few times.  It takes Dismas several seconds to realize he's still holding his flintlock and he quickly lowers the weapon. 

"I thought I head – ," Mallory says in way of apology, her eyes briefly skittering to the crusader whose face is hidden in the shadows. 

It's fairly obvious by now what she heard, but Dismas has to commend her dedication of rushing to their help.  "It's alright," he says in a rough voice, though his position on the floor might belie his words somewhat.  "Thanks." 

Mallory nods a couple of times, as if she has to convince herself that everything is indeed alright, and much gentler than she had come in, she closes the door behind her. 

Dismas rests his forehead on his knees and takes a moment to take several deep breaths.  The panic has passed, but he still feels shaky when he gets to his feet even though by now his heartbeat is slowing down.  Dismas shivers when the cold night air stirs his sweat-soaked shirt. 

Being awake may have pushed back the terrors of the unconscious, but when Dismas remembers the previous day and the horror they had found under the mansion...

Shit, he don't even begrudge the knight his nightmares. 

Dismas can hear Reynauld breathe heavily, though he cannot make out much more than the other man's hunched over form.  The crusader sits on the bed with feet braced and his sword across his lap, the exact opposite of someone relaxing and ready to return to sleep.  Not that Dismas can blame him, but the other man's tension is making him uneasy as well. 

Dismas is about as awake as he's gonna be, and he really does not wish to lie around and let his mind come up with more ways to torment him.  

"Ya know what always makes me feel better?" Dismas asks suddenly, pulling on his pants and shrugging into his coat after a quick change of shirts.  "A walk."  He's certainly going on one, and the invitation stands; it's up to Reynauld to accept. 

The crusader heaves himself to his feet, a motion more fitting for a man thirty years his senior.  His limp is less pronounced than it was when he was wearing armour.  Dismas cannot recall it being there yesterday, or even this morning, which means it is a souvenir from today's forage. 

They do not speak, but Dismas waits impatiently as Reynauld dresses in something warmer than his tunic.   When they descent side by side, only the stairs creak in the otherwise silent mansion.  The air is musty, thick with dust and something else.  Dismas cannot put his finger on it, but he senses that Reynauld can feel it too. 

Out in the open, the night envelops them like a blanket.  It's cold and fresh, and with the stars and moon out it's even lighter outside than it was inside.  Bright enough that do not need any additional light sources. 

Dismas slowly begins to relax as the confinement of walls is left further behind him with every step.  He doesn't ask where Reynauld wishes to go, they just stroll around the old house as if that was a path they had agreed on before.  The sword Reynauld carries bumps into Dismas' hip a couple of times.  Reynauld does not seem to notice.  Dismas would have said he hasn't been like himself ever since going down into that cursed cellar, but the truth is he doesn't know the knight well enough to make that assumption.  

Behind the mansion there is another courtyard, wilder than the one in front.  It is flooded in silvery moonlight that reflects off the white marble statues that are wrapped in evergreen ivy as if they too had dressed for winter.  An ornate fountain takes the center, but upon having a closer look they can see that it is clogged with rotting leaves.  This place must have been beautiful once, but much like the rest of the Hamlet, it has fallen to decay. 

When they find a low bench, they take the opportunity to sit down.  Instantly, the cold of the stone surface seeps through Dismas' pants. 

"If I didn't know better I'd say it's pretty," Dismas says, surveying the gardens around them.  Talking is just another way to stave off the desperation, but when Reynauld doesn't react at all, Dismas' discomfort tips over into worry. 

"Hey.  Ya sure yer alright?" 

Reynauld looks up only when Dismas' hand lands on his forearm.  Dismas withdraws instantly, because he doesn't like how the knight flinches back.  Something sure ain't right there, but he'd be damned if he knows what it is. 

"Fine," the crusader replies, but he does not meet the highwayman's eyes. 

Yeah.  _Sure_. 

But there's a change; Reynauld seems more alert than before.  He runs his fingers through his hair, then remains with his hands pressed to his eyes. 

Dismas picks at a loose thread on his sleeve.  They remain like that for a while, but Dismas has never coped well with the quiet.  He likes the sound of a voice – even if it's just his own. 

"How's the leg doin'?" he asks eventually.  They're not on good enough terms for Dismas to tell him to drop his pants so he can check for himself.  The thought of the knight's face if he did does lift his spirits somewhat. 

"It has suffered no greater harm," Reynauld replies, lifting his head.  "It should heal, Light willing." 

The crusader had patched him up, he knows something about medicine.  Probably much more than the highwayman does.  Dismas drops the topic, and they lapse back into not talking. 

"You are a very fine marksman," the crusader says out of nowhere. 

It's nothing short of true, but to hear another one say so, ignites a spark of pride in Dismas' chest.  He's also a bit too shocked about the knight complimenting him to manage anything more coherent than,

"Thanks... Rey." 

The smile Dismas directs at the other man sours and withers when the crusader keeps looking at the ground. 

"I have seen much," Reynauld rasps after a while that us just long enough to make Dismas fiddle with his coat again, "but never the dead rise up to claim the living as their own.  And the things they whispered to me- ."  At this point he seems to be talking more to himself than to his companion. 

Dismas shivers, happy not to have heard a thing.  Maybe Reynauld is talking about his dream.  Maybe he isn't.  Either way, Dismas doesn't want to know what the dead whisper. 

"We made it out.  S' all that matters."  But even as he speaks, doubts assault him.  This was just the first real run.  Will they have to go back?  He isn't sure he can face what hides under the manor again.  At the same time, he may have to if he ever wishes to leave he Hamlet. 

He may deserve this hell, but that does not mean he can stand it. 

"Let's go." 

"What?" Dismas asks stupidly, so caught in his own thoughts that he has missed Reynauld getting up.  He swears he can see a muscle twitch in Reynauld's jaw. 

"You said to go for a walk; let's walk." 

They do so, passing dead flower beds and bushes that had long ago lost their artful trims.  On the other side, Dismas spots a low building that he had never paid any attention before. 

"What's that?" Dismas asks, pointing. 

"The stables," Reynauld replies, and picks the path that will take them closer. 

"Huh.  Didn't know there were any."  A silly thing to say, he realizes too late.  Of course there are.  Mallory's got to keep her horses somewhere. 

As they draw near, he can hear a soft nicker greet them.  There are six animals in total out in the pasture; two are the horses who pulled their ill-fated chariot, and one is Mallory's sleek hunter.  One of the others is sway-backed and thin enough for its ribs to show under a shaggy, patchy coat, and it is the first to get its nose rubbed by the crusader.  Dismas chooses to stand a few steps behind. 

Horses are fast, and appear to be even faster when you're on top of them, they eat grass and they kick.  That's the gist of his knowledge.  Not that he'd not stolen the one or other, but certainly never one as fine as most of Mallory's animals. 

Reynauld seems happy to pet his furry friends, even one enormous steed whose head is as big as Dismas' torso. 

"Don't get your hand bit off," the highwayman grumbles, eying the beast warily.  He sure ain't gettin' anywhere near those teeth. 

"They don't like meat," Reynauld says calmly with a look over his shoulder.  "If they take a couple of your fingers, they'll spit them back out again." 

And that is supposed to be... comforting?  Dismas gapes, at least until the nearest beast snorts and sprays the crusader with a fine mist of snot.  Then he breaks out in a laugh that spooks the horses into trotting away.  That's what the knight gets – but Reynauld chuckles too, genuinely amused and Dismas watches the transformation in him with fascination. 

They head back to the house soon, for what rest they can get for what is left of the night. 

 

The next time when Dismas wakes, it is because the early midday sun is shining through the window and straight into his face.  Usually an early riser out of necessity, the only times he sleeps in like this is when large amounts of alcohol are involved. 

By the time they returned to the house, a faint stripe of grey was visible on the horizon.  They'd both managed to find some more rest, and the rest of the night passes without any further incidents. 

The highwayman casts a glance towards Reynauld's bed – which he finds made and its owner gone.  And he had not heard a thing.  A man of the crusader's calibre ought not be able to move so stealthily.  That trait should be reserved for rogues such as himself.  But even so, the water pitcher that Dismas knows for sure wasn't full yesterday, is most welcome. 

When he finally makes it down, Mallory isn't around and neither are Reynauld or the Caretaker.  The latter also runs a small general goods store in the village, which might explain how he continuously fails to do his duties around the mansion.  The Heiress is convinced that it is because of the man's madness, and not out of any ill will or inherent laziness. 

Dismas' feet take him towards the Hamlet, in the opposite direction of the path they had walked yesterday night.  Over the crest of the hill he cannot see the stables where Mallory's horses are undoubtedly noisily munching some fodder.  As always, the town seems to be half-deserted, although today he can see pale faces behind broken shutters that quickly disappear when he looks their way. 

Dismas tries to shake off the strange feeling that suddenly assaults him and turns towards the one place where there seems to me some manner of activity: the abbey.  There, Dismas spots Liz and Darell hauling wooden boards, such as are used in construction.  The man is sporting a large bruise on his cheek and both of them keep their heads down and their mouths shut.  It seems someone's learned their lesson, as neither pays the highwayman any heed when he walks past. 

Just out of curiosity Dismas decides to have a closer look at the church that his roommate has taken upon himself to restore, probably with the help of the Vestal.  She doesn't seem to be here now, but the highwayman instantly catches sight of Reynauld.  It's easy to make out the crusader's broad form next to that of another man who has to be the priest.  He's got a long face, too big ears, and tufts of hair that stand up just so as to best frame his balding head.  Dismas dislikes him at first sight. 

He doesn't approach any further.  They seem busy enough with abbey work, and he isn't sure what he could contribute to that – or whether he wants to. 

Dismas decides to look in on the smith, and leaves with a rack for Reynauld's armour, a lance, and a pouch full of newly cast bullets, which is the bribe that convinces him to help Farley carry the former two back to the mansion. 

Unlike Reynauld or the smith, Dismas doesn't have work to do, and he is free to wander the village and to spend his time as he wills.  Eventually, he gives in to the pull and slowly makes for the tavern.  It's still early for drink, but there's bound to be food there, and company, and he craves both in equal measure. 

As he nears the building, Lenn's booming voice spills out from the tavern. 

"No!" 

Grinning from the thought that the barman might have sensed his presence, Dismas pushes open the door – and immediately finds himself in the midst of a heated argument. 

"Tis' a guesthouse or not!?" a stocky man in his middle to late fifties bellows.  He has a head full of grey hair that is on its best way to becoming white as snow, and is a stark contrast to the red in his round face which betrays his enragement.  But without a doubt the stranger's most memorable feature is the patch covering his right eye. 

"Aye," Lenn growls without backing down.  "A guesthouse, not a bloody hospice!" 

"Friend," another man intervenes, and his quiet, calm tone that has much more impact on his companion than anything Lenn has said so far.  "It is his tavern, and his good right." 

Dismas is shocked to see the stranger's telltale getup.  A mask and clothing that leaves not an inch of his skin visible.  He now understands what the dispute is about and has to agree with Lenn; it's discomforting being even this close to the afflicted. 

The leper's companion sits down, although he does so with a glower, and Dismas swears that even his moustache is bristling with belligerence. 

"There's plenty of empty houses around," Lenn grunts, and he sounds more sullen now that he's no longer having his feathers ruffled.  "Bring or buy your own dishes, and I will provide you with food and drink." 

"Well.  I shall go find us an abode then," the bloke who had argued with the bartender huffs, and rises again with the brusqueness of a military man.  He is not tall, but Dismas suspects that his girth is more muscle than fat, and he prudently steps to the side to let him pass. 

Dismas takes the opportunity of a lull in the conversation to approach the bar. 

"Who're they?" 

"New arrivals," the barman grunts.  "Say they came here 'bout an hour ago.  The leper over there," Lenn isn't subtle in pointing the dirty glass in his hands at the man in question, "and two of his friends.  Offered them a room, but they didn't take it well w hen I said I ain't housing _him_ , no matter what that witch says." 

 _Two?_ Dismas had not seen anyone else, but a careful look around reveals what he had missed at first – there is another figure leaning against the tiled stove, motionless and far too easy to overlook.  Dismas feels a surge of ire towards this person, although it is his own fault that he had failed to spot him.  At least he doesn't have to enquire who _that witch_ is.  Nor is he surprised that the plague doctor would take an interest in the diseased man. 

"What does she say?" Dismas wants to know. 

"That the chance of someone getting infected converges towards zero," Lenn parrots.  "Well, it's a chance I ain't taking.  There's a reason they cast them out," the barman grunts.  "Poor sod – he ain't even the actual problem.  Been nothin' but polite since he came it." 

"Ah."  Dismas can guess the pain in the ass has been. 

The person in question returns just as he is midway through his second mug of rum-spiced berry infusion. 

"I found a house," he announces.  "It's not much, but it has a room and a functional chimney."  He gives Lenn a dark glare which the barman returns without blinking, and Dismas is good and ready to find cover under the counter the second something other than dirty looks gets thrown. 

"Thank you, Montfort" the leper answers.  "I am sure we will make it homely in no time."  He nods in the direction of Lenn and Dismas, and beckons to his other mysterious companion, who follows like a shadow. 

"Let's go then," Montfort agrees, holding open the door as the entourage gathers to leave.  "There's some sort of congregation happening outside, I don't like – "

Dismas doesn't get to hear the rest of it before the door closes and cuts off the rest of the sentence.  All of a sudden, the bar feels empty and confining, and the urge to move again like an itch under his skin.  He chugs the last of his drink and hands back the mug. 

Provoking the barman is the next closest thing Dismas has done to poking a snarling bear with a stick, but he cannot resist to grin up and Lenn and add, "See?  I ain't that bad."

The answering snort tells him otherwise. 

Just as he is about to leave, there is a burst of noise as the door swings open again and a cloaked figure comes running up to the bar, almost knocking Dismas over.  A flash of irritation crosses Lenn's face, until the hood is thrown back, and he and Dismas both recognize Farley's wild hair and beard. 

"She's not here?" the smith gasps, looking around, as if expecting to see someone familiar. 

"Who?" 

"Mallory!" 

"No, why– ?" 

Farley waves a hand to silence him, and hurries to explain.  "The townsfolk, they are planning to march on the estate.  Last night's magic has them scared witless.  I tried ta reason with some of them, but they think what worked on the old man might work on his heir." 

It takes a few seconds before the words sink in, but when they do they do a better job of sobering Dismas up than being dunked in the horse trough by the city guard. 

"I need to go," he blurts out and he gets up so fast he knocks over his stool. 

"Wait!"  Lenn's paw on his shoulder stops him.  "Better take the back door." 

Dismas doesn't have time to nod, because he is already on the move.  He hits the door at a full run and barely takes notice of all the people milling around, of the torches being lit.  Farley was right, it don't look good.  Angry shouts fade in the distance as Dismas hauls ass back to the mansion, as if the Holy Inquisition itself was on his heels. 

Every step feels like being stabbed anew, and there is an irritating pinch in his knee and thigh, but he doesn't slow down.  He needs to get to the house before the mob does, or they're all royally fucked.  Funnily, enough he's not thinking about Mallory as much as he is about Reynauld. 

Tin-man will help, he tells himself, because after sprinting all the way up the hill he ain't sure he'll be good for much more than throwing up on the threshold. 

Dismas bursts into his room with enough noise that the crusader jumps up, actually jumps _,_ and stares at him with wide eyes.  Ain't the time for him to worry what that is about. 

Dismas' chest is heaving and his throat burns worse than after drinking fire whiskey, but he manages to point to the window and wheeze,

"We're in trouble." 

In the distance, a fiery serpent has begun to coil itself around the alley leading up to the mansion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Typo of the week: When Dismas returns to the loving room... (͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


End file.
